To the Fake Emily Youree in Georgia

Dear Fake Emily Youree in Georgia:

You are on my mind today. Since I learned of your existence and actions this morning, I can't honestly stop thinking about you.

I know what you were doing yesterday, but I'm curious about what you are doing today.

Here is what I, the real Emily Youree, have been doing today:

The story actually started last night when we realized someone withdrew 72 percent of the funds from our checking account. My husband spent nearly an hour on the phone getting information, learning about our next steps. This morning, he was at our local bank branch before the doors opened, spending two hours there. I also visited the branch for about 30 minutes earlier this afternoon. We've closed accounts, filed reports, spoken with law enforcements, created credit monitoring, submitted formal complaints, grocery shopped, and made breakfast and lunch for our family.

But what about you? What do you do the day after you steal? Rob from someone you don't know?

My gut reaction is to be angry, very angry with you, at you. And I am mad. At you, the bank teller, and manager in Canton, Georgia who somehow thought it wasn't suspicious at all for a woman "from Fort Worth, Texas" to show up in Canton and ask to withdraw a few thousand dollars.

I digress.

While I am angry, I am mostly sad and hurt.

Sad because I know what bad feels like. No matter how much stuff you buy or pay off . . . no matter the thrill of the high that comes with outsmarting another . . . no matter how you can rationalize your choices and actions . . . bad still ultimately feels bad. What were your hopes and dreams? What choices led you to today? Is this what you envisioned when you were a little girl? Are you proud of yourself? How did your heart get to a point where it is okay with hurting other people? I'm sad you are living life with such a heavy burden to drag around.

I pray that you feel guilty today, that your purchases don't live up to your expectations. Why? Because the presence of guilt means soft spots still live in your heart.

I am hurt because you are a woman -- part of my tribe. It stings when another woman, maybe even another mother, deliberately wrongs you.

You have my bank account number, a fake driver's license that resembles my own, and a fake credit card with my name, but you are not me. You do not have the love of a man who oozes with humility, loyalty, integrity, and a stellar sense of humor. You do not have the privilege of raising two of the most precious people on this planet. You do not have my friends, my church family, my neighbors, my family. You do not have a business that challenges you, inspires you, and motivates you. You do not have a conscience at rest thanks to redemption.

You may have a new handbag or television or a basket full of goodies from Wal-Mart, but please let me be the one to tell you: The money you stole from me yesterday does not, did not determine my value. Money doesn't provide worth; things do not bring security; addictions don't save you; fraud only makes you fake.

So, to the fake Emily Youree in Georgia, you may wish to be me, but I certainly never want to be you. I've put the pretending and pain behind me; I hope you do the same.