TD Canada Trust Branch and ATM

Reviews

• KH

  Kelly Hill

  Jun 15, 2025
  1.0
  Speaking of Scams By K.A. Hill-McPherson There’s a woman I could name, but won’t. She lives up in Prince George, British Columbia. A widow. One of those quiet types who lived a good-enough life without making too much noise about it. A few bucks in the bank. Not rich, not poor—just earned. She gave her years to the usual things—raising kids, folding clothes, worrying over bills. The kind of living that leaves a mark on the hands but never quite gets etched into history. Now it’s the so-called golden years. But gold, as it turns out, is just a color. Not a guarantee. Her house, the one she spent three decades in, was still beautiful. But the yard had grown too big, the stairs too steep, the rooms too quiet. The kids are gone, scattered across provinces. Friends? Mostly memories now. Mother’s Day comes and goes—maybe a text, maybe a card that lands a day late. More silence than celebration. So she did what people do. She let go. Sold the house. Bought a condo. One of those clean, manageable places—heated sidewalks, underground parking, turn-key freedom. No more lawns, no more weeds. Just a door that locks easy behind her. And for a moment, it felt like she’d done it right. A bit of cash in the bank. A place of her own. Maybe she’d travel. Maybe she’d rest. Maybe she’d finally be comfortable. But towns change. Her street looks like a stage after the actors have all gone home. Parks trimmed to perfection, but no one pushing swings. Stores closing earlier. Windows papered over. It’s not just quiet—it’s hollow. That’s where the screen comes in. Facebook. TikTok. WhatsApp. The modern campfire. Only the flames don’t warm you. They burn. A man appears. Smooth. Affectionate in that scripted way. He says the right things. You deserve more. You could have more. He mentions a stock. A new opportunity. Just a small buy-in. High returns. “People don’t know about it yet.” The kind of secret that makes you feel special. She walks into the bank. Alone. Says she’d like to withdraw her savings. Max out her line of credit. Wants the money in drafts. Large ones. The teller doesn’t ask why. Just slides the forms across and says, “Are you okay with this?” She nods. Because when you’re that age, people assume you know what you’re doing. Even when you don’t. She sends the drafts. All of it. Click. Send. Done. It was a pump and dump. The classic kind. Fake urgency, inflated stock, a promise of wealth just out of reach. By Friday morning, it’s all worthless. Gone. Her money. Her comfort. Her future. The man vanishes. The messages stop. The email bounces. She tells no one. Because the shame is worse than the loss. Because once the scam’s over, all that’s left is the mirror. And the question: How could I fall for that? Now she sits in a condo she owns but no longer loves. A place that was supposed to bring peace. And all it brings is a key she doesn’t turn much anymore. She’s not the only one. But that doesn’t help. Because pain is always personal. Even when it’s common.

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