Several years ago, when I was living in Maine, I dated a man I’ll call R. He was originally from Georgia, where his parents were founding members of a Southern Baptist church. At that point in my life, I wasn’t interested in remarrying or cohabitating—I just wanted a healthy relationship with a like-minded partner. R seemed to be a great fit, and things were going well.
He gave me every reason to believe he was as into me as I was into him. He even took me to Georgia to meet his parents and attend their church (shockingly, lightning didn’t strike, but I digress). The relationship continued to progress smoothly after we returned to Maine and spent more time together.
About a month later, during one of our evenings together, I told him I loved him—the dreaded “L” word—before heading back to my place. Given his actions, words, and how our relationship had been going, I was confident he felt the same way or was at least moving in that direction.
When I returned to his house a day or two later, I was met with an unpleasant surprise. He had packed up the few belongings I’d left there—a toothbrush, a few toiletries—and bluntly told me that we were done. Using the “L” word, he said, was a deal-breaker for him.
In that moment, it became clear to me that R was nothing more than a con artist, albeit a skilled one, considering my usual cynicism.
After the breakup, I learned more about R’s past. He had been working at a bank call center when we dated, but before that, he was a social worker who lost his license due to an inappropriate relationship with a female client.
Feeling betrayed and furious, I decided to take action. I sent an email to his deeply religious parents using an email address so similar to his that they wouldn’t notice the difference. In the email, I “confessed” his misconduct that had cost him his professional license, complete with a link to the state’s website where the details were publicly available.
Take that, R. You earned it.
