The evening started like any other, with my mother quietly setting the table. As I sat down, I noticed the missing plate where she usually sat, a minor detail that suddenly felt like a gaping hole. My heart tightened as I tried to dismiss the unease crawling up my spine. I asked her about it, and she merely smiled, a rehearsed smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She mumbled something about not being hungry, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
The next morning, I decided to comb through some of the household documents, a task I normally avoided. Buried deep within a stack of papers was a letter from the bank, dated two months ago, stamped ‘final notice’ in red ink. My stomach dropped as I realized the implications.
I confronted my mother, expecting explanations, but she looked away, avoiding my eyes. Her silence was deafening. The phone rang, interrupting the tension. It was the bank again. They wanted to schedule a meeting—something about the house. As I hung up, a sense of urgency set in. I needed to understand what was going on, and quickly.
With renewed determination, I began to piece together the puzzle. The next step was to call the bank and set up a meeting, hoping to gather more information. As I dialed the number, I couldn’t help but wonder how we had arrived at this point.
The voice on the other end was polite but clipped, as if rehearsed for conversations like these. We set a date for later that week, and I hung up, feeling both relieved and anxious.
The days leading up to the meeting were a blur of anxiety and speculation. I replayed every conversation with my mother, searching for clues I might have missed. But each recollection only added to my confusion.
Finally, the day of the meeting arrived. I dressed in my most professional attire, hoping to mask my nerves. The bank’s office was sterile, the receptionist’s smile just as rehearsed as my mother’s. I waited, clutching the stack of papers that had become my lifeline.
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