My phone rang that night. It was my father. His voice was cracked and small. “We kicked her out,” he said. “She has thirty days to find a place. We didn’t know, honey. We’re so sorry.”
He paused, then added the part I was expecting. “We’re drowning in debt again. Can you… can you restart the payments? Just until we get back on our feet?” I looked around my quiet, spacious apartment.
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I had just been approved for a penthouse downtown. My savings were growing again. I wasn’t just surviving anymore; I was thriving. “I can’t do that, Dad,” I said firmly.
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“You have a daughter who makes $8,500 a month. She can pay your mortgage. Or you can sell the house. But the ‘Bank of Me’ is closed permanently.” I hung up before he could beg.