Three days later, as I sat at the kitchen table in our cramped motel room, an envelope arrived addressed to my mother. The sender was unfamiliar, but the solemnity of its delivery by the mailman underscored its importance. It was simply marked “Urgent.”
I tucked the letter under my arm, kissed Hannah on the forehead, and promised I’d return shortly. She lay curled on the bed, clutching her favorite stuffed bear, a gift from her late father. Her resilience over the past few days had been remarkable—a quiet light in the turbulent storm that surrounded us.
The drive back to my mother’s house felt longer with each mile. When I arrived, I parked on the street, hesitated to gather my thoughts, and stepped out. The house loomed before me, once a second home, now a fortress from which we had been unceremoniously evicted. I approached the door, knocked timidly, and waited.
The door opened to reveal my mother. Gone was the habitual glass of wine, replaced by a shadow of worry on her face. “Elena,” she greeted softly.
“Mom,” I replied, handing her the envelope. “This came for you.”
Her eyes widened as she recognized the sender’s seal. She paused, reading the exterior, before stepping back to let me in. I followed her into the familiar dining room. The scent of freshly brewed coffee lingered—once comforting, now a reminder of warmth we had lost.
As my mother opened the letter, her expressions shifted: confusion, disbelief, and finally, a creeping panic. Her hands trembled as she set it down. “This… this can’t be right,” she whispered.
“What is it?” I asked, my voice edged with concern.
“It’s from the bank,” she said, barely above a whisper. “They’re foreclosing on the house.”
Silence fell, thick and heavy. “How did this happen? You said you were doing fine.”
“I thought I was,” she admitted defensively, then softened. “I didn’t realize how far behind we were. Your father always handled these things, and after he passed…”
For the first time, I saw the fragility she had hidden beneath pride and stubbornness. She was not only a matriarch but a woman grappling with loss and chaos.
“I didn’t know,” she continued, tears brimming. “I thought pushing you away would make things easier, but…”
I reached out, placing my hand over hers. “We can fix this,” I said gently. “But we need to work together.”
It was as much a promise to her as it was to myself. Rebuilding would be difficult, but for Hannah, for our family, and for the one we could become, we would find a way. Together.
