My Scam Victim/Survivor Story #67

Romance Scam

Survivor’s Country: CANADA

This is the original victim’s story, enhanced by the SCARS Institute Editorial Team to improve comprehension, readability, and continuity. The names were changed to protect the survivor’s identity.

WARNING: THIS SCAM VICTIM/SURVIVOR’S STORY MAY BE TRIGGERING TO SOME PEOPLE. DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

ADVERTENCIA: LA HISTORIA DE ESTA VÍCTIMA/SOBREVIVIENTE DE ESTAFA PUEDE SER INSENSIBLE PARA ALGUNAS PERSONAS. SE RECOMIENDA DISCRECIÓN.

If you need help, join our free SCARS Institute Support and Recovery Program at support.AgainstScams.org

Si necesita ayuda, únase a nuestro Programa gratuito de Apoyo y Recuperación del Instituto SCARS en support.AgainstScams.org

My Scam Victim Story

I’m a 60-year-old retired teacher living in Victoria, British Columbia, and I never thought I’d lose $120,000 to a scam that started with a charming message on a dating site. I’ve always been cautious, double-checking suspicious emails and teaching my students to question unsolicited offers. But in 2021, I fell for a romance scam that drained my savings and left me questioning my trust in others and myself. The scammer was a master manipulator, posing as a perfect partner who seemed genuine, only to betray me when I was most vulnerable. Writing this feels like reopening a wound, but I’m sharing my story to warn others across Canada, hoping you can avoid the devastation I faced. The loss has reshaped my life, but by understanding how I was deceived, I’m slowly rebuilding, determined to help you stay safe.

It began during a quiet evening in Victoria, when I decided to try online dating to ease the loneliness after my divorce. I joined a popular dating site, hoping to find someone to share coffee and conversations with. A profile stood out: Andrew Walsh, a 62-year-old Canadian engineer working on a construction project in Dubai. His photo showed a handsome man with a kind smile, and his bio mentioned a love for hiking and literature. I sent a message, and he replied quickly. Your passion for teaching is inspiring, I’d love to hear more, he wrote, his words thoughtful and warm. I felt a spark, a glimmer of connection I hadn’t felt in years.

We moved our chats to email, then phone calls, where Andrew was attentive, asking about my life in Victoria, my garden, and my volunteer work at the local library. He shared stories of his own—how he’d lost his wife years ago, was raising a son, and worked on global projects. You have such a big heart, it’s rare, he said, and I felt flattered, letting myself believe I’d found someone special. He sent photos: him in a hardhat on a construction site, at a Dubai market, even with his “son” at a soccer game. Our talks grew intimate, and within a month, I was falling for him, dreaming of meeting when his project ended.

About six weeks in, Andrew’s messages took a subtle turn. He mentioned a delay in his project funding due to a client dispute. It’s just a temporary issue, he said, shrugging it off. I offered support, not suspecting a trap. Then, one night, he called, his voice heavy with worry. He said a supplier had frozen his equipment, and he needed $4,000 to release it or lose the contract. I hate asking, but you’re my lifeline, he pleaded. My heart ached for him, and though I paused, I sent the money via a bank transfer, believing I was helping someone I cared about. He thanked me, promising to repay me soon.

That was the start of a downward spiral. Over the next year, Andrew’s “crises” multiplied. He needed $10,000 for customs fees, then $15,000 for a legal settlement with a client. Each request came with documents—purchase orders, tax forms, even a contract—that looked real. This will get the project back on track, and I’ll pay you back with interest, he assured me. I dipped into my savings, then my retirement fund, convinced I was investing in our future. He spoke of visiting Victoria, exploring the Butchart Gardens together, maybe settling here. I clung to that vision, ignoring the growing dent in my finances.

The requests escalated. He claimed a banking error in Dubai required $20,000 to unlock his funds, then $25,000 for a “medical emergency” after a supposed site accident. He sent a photo of himself in a hospital bed, looking frail, which tore at my heart. I’ll be fine, but I need you now, he wrote. I sold investments, took out a loan, and even borrowed against my pension, telling myself it was temporary. By mid-2022, I’d sent $120,000, exhausting my savings and stretching my resources thin. Each payment felt like a lifeline to keep Andrew safe, to keep “us” alive.

Doubts began to surface, but Andrew was skilled at quelling them. When I asked why repayments were delayed, he’d call, his voice soft and reassuring. You’re my everything, I’ll make this right, he’d say, promising a big payout from his project. He sent a contract showing a $1.5 million deal, claiming it would cover everything. But the money never came. Instead, he asked for another $30,000 to “finalize” the project, saying it was the last step. Broke and desperate, I demanded proof he was real, asking for a video call. His reply was cold: You’ll never catch me. Then, nothing. His phone went silent, his email bounced, and his dating profile vanished.

I sat in my Victoria home, staring at my empty bank account, my hands shaking with disbelief. I’d sent $120,000 over 15 months, money meant for my retirement, my grandkids’ future, my security. The truth was crushing: Andrew wasn’t an engineer in Dubai. He was likely a scammer, possibly overseas, who’d preyed on my longing for love. I later learned the hospital photo was fake, his image stolen from a social media account. The documents, the stories, the affection—all fabricated. I felt like I’d been living in a dream, only to wake up to a shattering reality.

The shame was unbearable. I couldn’t face telling my kids, who’d always seen me as their steady guide. I’d missed red flags—the urgent requests, the secrecy, the too-perfect persona—because I wanted to believe in him. I kept it hidden for weeks, crying alone, replaying every message. The betrayal wasn’t just financial; it was deeply personal, like losing a partner who never existed. I grew wary of every email, every call, even friendly faces, fearing another deception. My confidence, built over decades of teaching and planning, crumbled, and I doubted my ability to judge anyone, haunted by my own naivety.

Eventually, I confided in my daughter, who hugged me and urged me to forgive myself. I joined an online support group, reading stories from others across Canada who’d been duped by romance scams. I thought I was alone, but I wasn’t, I realized, finding solace in shared pain. The scammer’s tactics—love-bombing, fake emergencies, forged documents—were calculated, designed to exploit trust. Knowing this eased my self-blame, though the financial loss still stings. I’m rebuilding, living frugally on my pension, and relying on my kids more than I’d hoped.

Sharing this is painful, like admitting a defeat, but it’s worth it if it saves you. In 2022, Canadians lost over $500 million to fraud, and I was one of thousands caught in the net. These scammers are experts at blending in, crafting personas that feel authentic, like imposters wearing a trusted face. If someone online moves too fast, asks for money, or pushes secrecy, step back. Verify their story, talk to loved ones, and never send funds to someone you haven’t met in person. I learned these lessons too late, but by sharing my story, I hope you can stay vigilant and protect your heart and savings from those who hide behind a mask of love.

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