The Facade of Normalcy in the Six
From the outside, my life looks like that of any other Toronto mom. The drop-offs at Rosedale Public School, the weekend trips to the Riverdale Farm, the coffee dates at Trinity Bellwoods Park. Other mothers see my designer handbag, my leased Lexus SUV, and my seemingly comfortable lifestyle. They don’t see the constant calculations running through my mind, the ever-present anxiety, or the elaborate web of deception that funds this carefully constructed facade.
I am a fraudster. And I am a mother. These two identities are in constant, exhausting conflict.
The Genesis of Deception
It didn’t start as a career choice. It began with desperation during my maternity leave. The bills were piling up—the mortgage on our one-bedroom condo, the staggering cost of childcare, the endless needs of a newborn. My husband’s construction income was inconsistent, and my EI payments barely covered groceries.
The first scam was almost accidental. I discovered I could return stolen merchandise to major retailers for store credit, then sell the gift cards online. What began as occasional petty theft to make ends meet slowly evolved into a sophisticated operation. I learned to manufacture convincing receipts, exploit return policies, and manipulate customer service representatives.
The Daily Grind of Deception
My “workday” begins after school drop-off. While other mothers head to yoga classes or their legitimate jobs, I’m orchestrating my schemes:
The Professional Returner
I maintain a network of boosters—mostly other mothers I’ve carefully vetted—who steal specific high-value items I request. Electronics, designer goods, premium cosmetics. I provide them with shopping lists and detailed instructions. They deliver the goods to me, and I handle the “returns” using forged receipts and carefully crafted stories about defective products or unwanted gifts.
The Romance Scammer
In the evenings, after putting my daughter to bed, I become “Chloe,” a 28-year-old yoga instructor. I manage multiple dating profiles, cultivating relationships with lonely men who eventually find themselves “helping” me through fabricated emergencies—car repairs, medical bills, a sick relative. The guilt is crushing, but the money is too good to walk away from.
The Benefit Fraud
I’ve mastered the art of manipulating social assistance programs. I underreport income, maintain multiple identities, and claim benefits I’m not entitled to. In a city as expensive as Toronto, where the cost of living forces many to the brink, these extra thousands each month make the difference between barely surviving and providing my daughter with the childhood I want for her.
The Emotional Toll
The constant duality is exhausting. Reading bedtime stories to my daughter while mentally calculating my next shipment of stolen goods. Attending parent-teacher conferences while monitoring my burner phone for messages from my boosters. Smiling at other mothers in the playground while knowing they would recoil in horror if they knew the truth.
The paranoia is relentless. Every police car, every unexpected knock at the door, every official-looking letter sends my heart racing. I’ve developed elaborate contingency plans for what would happen if I were caught. Who would take care of my daughter? How would we survive without this income?
The Rationalizations
I tell myself I’m doing this for my daughter. That I’m providing her with opportunities I never had—private swimming lessons, quality childcare, a safe home in a good neighborhood. That the alternative—poverty, insecurity, constant struggle—would be worse for her.
I justify targeting corporations rather than individuals, though my romance scams betray this principle. I tell myself that big retailers build theft into their business models, that they exploit consumers anyway, that my actions are a form of wealth redistribution.
But in my quietest moments, I know these are lies I tell myself to sleep at night.
The Precarious Balancing Act
The most difficult part is maintaining the boundary between my criminal life and my motherhood. I never involve my daughter directly, but she’s the implicit reason for everything I do. The money I make pays for her dance classes, her organic food, her RESP. I live in constant fear that my actions will someday catch up with me and destroy her life too.
I’ve become an expert at hiding my tracks—burner phones, encrypted messaging, cryptocurrency conversions, cash transactions. But I know that in the age of digital surveillance, my luck will eventually run out.
A Life of Contradictions
I teach my daughter about honesty and integrity while building my life on deception. I volunteer at school fundraisers funded by money obtained through fraud. I donate to charity to ease my conscience, using ill-gotten gains to feel momentarily virtuous.
This is the reality of being a fraudster mother in Toronto—a constant battle between providing and compromising, between loving motherhood and resenting the desperation that drove me to this life. The financial security comes at the cost of my peace of mind, and the comforts I provide my daughter are tainted by the knowledge of how they were obtained.
I don’t know how this story ends. I tell myself I’ll quit after one more big score, but the lifestyle has become addictive. The fear of getting caught is only slightly outweighed by the terror of failing to provide for my child. In a city where the cost of living continues to skyrocket while wages stagnate, I’ve chosen a dangerous path to bridge the gap between what we need and what we can legitimately afford.
And so the double life continues—each day a balancing act between motherhood and criminality, between love and fraud, between the life we have and the life I’m desperate to maintain.