The following day, I woke early, the unease from the day before lingering like a shadow. I dressed quickly and made my way to the kitchen, where my mother was already sitting, a cup of coffee in her hands.
“We need to talk,” she said softly, her voice tinged with exhaustion.
I nodded, sitting across from her at the small, worn table that had seen countless family meals and late-night conversations.
“I don’t know what your father got us into,” she continued, her eyes fixed on the steam rising from her cup.
“But we have to find a way out of it.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of our predicament.
I wished I had answers, some magic solution that would make everything right again, but I didn’t.
Instead, I felt a growing determination—a resolve to protect my family, no matter what it took.
“We’ll figure it out,” I said, more to convince myself than her.
She nodded, a small, weary smile appearing briefly before disappearing again.
Later that day, I decided to dig through my father’s old papers, searching for clues about the debt, hoping to find something that would help us understand how we ended up here.
The task was daunting. The papers were a jumble of receipts, letters, and notes, some dating back years.
But I had to try. It was the only lead we had, and time was running out.
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