Dad texted: “You’re selfish and dead to me. Don’t contact us again.” I replied: “Okay.” Then I called my bank: “Cancel all automatic transfers to Anderson family accounts.” Seventy-two hours later, Mom called screaming. My name is Rebecca Anderson, and for the last eight years, I’ve been living two completely separate lives.
In one life, I’m the disappointment daughter. The one who wasted her economics degree on a boring government job. The one who drives a ten-year-old Honda Civic and lives in a modest apartment in Arlington, Virginia.
The one my parents mention with apologetic sighs at family gatherings. In my other life, the one my family knows nothing about, I’m a senior partner at Meridian Capital Management, one of the most exclusive investment firms in Washington, D.C. I manage a portfolio worth $847 million.
My personal net worth is somewhere north of $23 million. And for the past eight years, I’ve been quietly, systematically funding my family’s entire lifestyle. It started small.
When I was 24, fresh out of Georgetown with my master’s in financial economics, I landed my first real position at Meridian. My starting salary was $180,000, more money than I’d ever imagined making. Meanwhile, my parents were struggling.
Dad’s construction business had taken a hit during the recession, and Mom’s interior design company was barely breaking even. So I helped. Anonymously, at first.
A wire transfer here, a payment there. Their mortgage was $3,200 a month, and I started covering it through an LLC I’d set up. When their car broke down, I arranged for a dealer promotion that covered most of the replacement cost.
When my younger brother Marcus needed tuition for his MBA program, I funded a scholarship through my firm’s charitable foundation. I told myself I was being strategic. I didn’t want them to know about my success because I’d watched what money did to families.
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