The kitchen table was cluttered with bank statements, some dating back to 2017. I sat down, pen in hand, ready to tackle the mess of numbers. Across from me, the envelope that had started this whole ordeal lay open, its contents splayed out accusingly. The letterhead read “Final Notice” and underneath, a figure: $12,307.65. My spouse’s calm voice from the living room floated in, “Are you still going through those?” I hesitated. “Yeah, just trying to make sense of it all,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral. There was a pause, and then, “It’ll all work out.” But something in me shifted, a quiet determination to dig deeper.
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