My Family Mocked Me For Taking The Bus To Thanksgiving. They Didn’t Know I Own The House They Live In. Am I The Jerk For Taking The Turkey And Leaving In My Private Helicopter?

“You?” Emma could barely speak through her giggles.

“You founded a $2.8 billion company? That’s impossible,” Uncle Frank stated flatly.

“That kind of wealth would be visible. You’d have a car, a house, something to show for it.” “I have several houses, actually. And cars. I just don’t use them often.”

More laughter, harder this time. “This is pathetic,” Marcus said.

“She’s doubling down on the delusion.” Mom looked genuinely worried now.

“Sweetheart, maybe you should talk to someone. A therapist. This level of fantasy isn’t healthy.” “I’m not fantasizing.”

“Then show us proof!” Dad demanded.

“Right now! Pull up bank statements, ownership documents, something real!” I checked my watch: 24 minutes.

“You’ll have your proof shortly.” “What does that mean?” Emma stalked toward me.

“Stop being cryptic. Either you own this company or you don’t. Which is it?” “I own it.”

“Prove it!” “In about 23 minutes, you’ll have all the proof you need.”

Jennifer was still scrolling on Marcus’s phone. “It says the founder and CEO’s name isn’t public. The company is privately held. Very secretive. But there’s a board of directors listed. No women on it.”

“The board reports to me,” I explained.

“I don’t sit on it myself. Conflict of interest.” More laughter.

“This is unbelievable,” Aunt Patricia said.

“She’s actually committed to this lie.” My phone rang again.

I answered immediately. “Ma’am, we have a slight concern,” Captain Rodriguez said.

“The landing zone you specified, it’s a residential backyard. We need to confirm you have clearance for this approach. Neighbors might…” “I have clearance, Captain. The property owner is aware.”

“The property owner?” “Me. I own the house.”

There was a pause. “You own your parents’ house?”

“Purchased it three years ago. They don’t know yet. Long story. Proceed with landing.” “Understood, ma’am. 18 minutes out.”

I ended the call to find everyone staring again. “Who was that?” Mom asked suspiciously.

“My fleet captain. He’s confirming the landing approach.” “Landing?” Dad repeated slowly.

“Landing what? Where?” “Here. Three helicopters. 17 minutes.”

The room exploded. “She’s insane!” Emma declared.

“Actually insane! She thinks helicopters are landing here!” “This has gone too far,” Mom said.

“We need to get her help. Professional help.” “I don’t need help. I need you to wait 17 minutes.”

Marcus stood up. “I’ll prove she’s lying. I’ll go outside right now and wait. When no helicopters show up, maybe she’ll finally admit—”

“Fine,” I interrupted.

“Everyone, go outside. We can have appetizers on the back patio. The weather’s nice.” “You want us to go outside?” Jennifer asked slowly.

“To watch nothing happen?” “To watch three helicopters land in formation in our backyard.”

Dad looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “You’re saying three helicopters are going to land in our backyard in 15 minutes?”

“16 now, actually.” Emma grabbed her coat.

*”Fine. Let’s go outside. Let’s all watch nothing happen, and then maybe, finally, you’ll stop this ridiculous charade.”

Landing in the Backyard

We filed outside to the back patio. The yard was large—one of the reasons I bought the house when it went up for sale three years ago.

My parents had been struggling with the mortgage, though they’d never admitted it to me. The bank had been ready to foreclose.

I’d purchased it through a shell company, then leased it back to them at a rate they could afford. They’d thought the bank had restructured their loan.

They had no idea their daughter owned their home. “So we’re doing this?” Marcus said, checking his phone.

“We’re actually standing outside in November waiting for imaginary helicopters?” “It’s not that cold,” I observed.

“That’s not the point!” Emma was nearly shrieking now.

“The point is you’re delusional! You’re mentally ill! You need help!” “Honey,” Mom approached carefully, like I was a wild animal.

“It’s okay to admit you made this all up. We’ll get you help. Find you a good therapist, maybe some medication.” “I don’t need medication.”

“Then where are these helicopters?” Dad demanded.

“It’s been five minutes. Where are they?” I checked my watch.

“Still 11 minutes out. Captain Rodriguez is very punctual.” Jennifer had her phone up, filming.

“I’m recording this. When nothing happens, I’m posting it everywhere. You’ll be a cautionary tale about delusion and mental health.” “That’s cruel, Jennifer,” Aunt Patricia said, but she didn’t tell her to stop filming.

We stood in silence. The sun was getting lower, casting long shadows across the yard.

It really was a nice property. Half an acre, mature trees, good sight lines—excellent for helicopter landings.

“This is absurd,” Uncle Frank muttered.

“Standing in the cold for a woman’s fantasy.” “Eight minutes,” I said quietly.

“Stop it!” Emma snapped.

“Stop pretending! Just stop!” My phone buzzed.

I glanced at it. Captain Rodriguez: 7 minutes out. Visual confirmed on landing zone. Beautiful property, by the way.

I smiled. “What?” Mom demanded.

“What are you smiling at?” “Captain Rodriguez says, ‘You have a beautiful property.'”

“Who the hell is Captain Rodriguez?” Dad exploded.

“There is no Captain Rodriguez! There are no helicopters! There is no aviation company! You’re a failure, and you’re making us all complicit in your delusion!” “Paul, please,” Mom clutched his arm.

“Don’t be so harsh.” “Harsh? I’m being honest! Something this family apparently stopped doing years ago.”

“We’ve been enabling this fantasy, and look where it’s gotten us! Standing in the backyard waiting for—” He stopped.

We all heard it. The distant thrum of helicopter rotors.

“That’s…” Jennifer lowered her phone.

“That’s not—” The sound grew louder.

Emma’s face drained of color. “That’s coincidence. Someone’s flying over.”

“Three someones,” I corrected.

“In formation.” Marcus was turning in circles, scanning the sky.

“I don’t… I don’t see anything yet.” “Five minutes out,” I said, checking my phone.

“They’re approaching from the northeast.” The sound intensified: deep, rhythmic, unmistakable.

“This is impossible,” Dad said weakly.

Then we saw them. Three helicopters crested the tree line, sleek and black, moving in perfect formation.

The setting sun glinted off their polished surfaces. They were beautiful: Sikorsky S-70s, the flagship of my executive fleet.