Leaving the bank, I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. The solutions presented were not impossible, but they required resources and resolve that I wasn’t sure we had. I drove home in silence, the enormity of the situation settling in.
My mother was waiting for me in the kitchen when I returned. She looked up, hope mingling with fear in her eyes. “How did it go?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. “There are options,” I said, echoing Mr. Collins. “But we need to act fast and make some tough decisions.”
She nodded, her expression a mix of relief and resignation. “I’m sorry,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. “I should have told you sooner.”
I moved to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “We’ll figure it out,” I promised, though I wasn’t entirely sure how.
The following days were filled with phone calls and paperwork. I contacted old friends and family, anyone who might be able to offer support or advice. Each conversation was a delicate balance of pride and desperation.
One evening, as I sorted through more documents, I stumbled upon an old letter addressed to my mother. Curious, I unfolded it, discovering a note from an estranged relative offering financial help. It was dated a year ago, but it gave me an idea.
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