They locked me out of the twenty-five-million-dollar “Malibu mansion” they thought I’d bought for them—and while they danced on the rugs and drank the wine, I sat in my car, opened the app, and with one tap turned my entire family from honored “homeowners” into trespassers with a six-figure bill in my mother’s name. I’d spent six years being “the bank.” I paid for Botox, vacations, rent, shopping sprees. When I told them I’d finally bought a coastal house, they didn’t hug me. They calculated ang

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