After they left, Daniel locked the front door and turned toward me.

“What did he mean about your mom losing her house?”

I didn’t know.

At least not completely. But a sick feeling had already settled deep in my stomach.

My mother had always been secretive about money. She owned a small house in Beaverton — the one my father left her after the divorce. For years she acted as if it was fully paid off. She used that house as proof she was responsible, stable, and smarter than everyone else.

But the next morning, my aunt Carol called.

“I heard there was a fight,” she said carefully.

“There was,” I answered.

Carol sighed heavily. “Emily… your mom never told you?”

My grip tightened around the phone.

The truth came out piece by piece. Linda refinanced her house two years earlier to help Tyler start a food truck business. The business collapsed within eight months. Then she took out another loan to pay off his credit cards because he insisted the debt was “temporary.” Now Linda was three months behind on her mortgage payments.

Tyler had been living with her rent-free, barely working, and blaming the house itself for his depression. According to him, moving into my larger home would help him “reset.” According to my mother, if Daniel and I took him in, she could rent out his old room and maybe catch up on her bills.

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