“A two-bedroom bungalow on Linden Street,” I said calmly. “I bought it three years before you proposed. My tenant moved out last week.” Gail recovered first, forcing a thin smile. “Then you’ll sell it and put the money toward this house. That’s what family does.” Brett slowly nodded beside his mother, almost as though the suggestion had already been discussed. I stared at my husband, waiting for him to object, but he remained silent.

Instead of answering, I reached into my bag and placed a manila envelope on the marble counter beside Gail’s dripping soup spoon. “Before anyone sells anything,” I said, “maybe one of you should explain this.” Gail glanced at the envelope, and every trace of color disappeared from her face. Through the clear window, the red letters were impossible to miss: NOTICE OF DEFAULT AND INTENT TO FORECLOSE. “I found it hidden underneath the grocery list,” I said. “You’re three months behind.” Gail slowly sat down.

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