I turned the pad toward the lamp and read the first line. It wasn’t a budget. It was one sentence, pressed so hard into the paper that it had torn in places. “Rachel does not know the bank sent us a foreclosure notice.” My hands went cold. Greg stood by my stove, staring at his boots, while Rachel stayed in the doorway with one hand gripping the frame.

“I found the notice this morning,” Rachel whispered. “Under the seat of his truck.” Then her voice cracked. “Mom, he didn’t ask you to move in for the kids. He asked because…” She couldn’t finish. Greg spoke, low and rough. “Carol, there’s a second page. Please read it before you decide whether to throw us out.” I turned the page, and my breath stopped.