We sat in silence, the enormity of the situation settling over us like an unwelcome guest. I unfolded the eviction notice, my eyes scanning the details. The address was familiar; it was my old house, the one I had left behind when work took me overseas. How had Ellen ended up here, of all places?
“How did you get involved with this place?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. Ellen shifted in her seat, her eyes briefly meeting mine before darting away.
“After Mom passed, I needed a job,” she explained. “They were hiring, and it paid well.”
The mention of her mother was like a punch to the gut. My ex-wife had died two years ago, and I hadn’t been able to make it back for the funeral. Work commitments, I had told myself, but now those excuses felt hollow.
“Ellen, you could have called me. I would have helped,” I said, the frustration evident in my tone.
She shrugged, a gesture that seemed both defiant and defeated. “I wanted to do it on my own.”
I took a deep breath, trying to process the information. “We need to figure this out,” I said finally. “There has to be a way to fix this.”
She nodded, but her expression remained guarded. I knew this was going to be a long road, and we had only just begun to walk it.
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