“I know.
I handled things badly.”
I looked at Margaret’s empty porch.
Badly.
Such a small word for packing bags two days after learning you were going to become a father.
“The mortgage company started foreclosure,” I said.
Silence.
Then Jason exhaled.
“Sarah, I can’t help with that kind of money.”
I hadn’t asked him to.
That was what struck me.
Before asking whether I was safe, whether I had somewhere to go, whether our baby would have a home, he defended himself against a request I hadn’t made.
“I know,” I said.
“I mean, maybe you could sell before it gets worse.
Get an apartment somewhere cheaper.”
Yesterday, that suggestion would have felt like another door closing.
Today I looked down at Margaret’s letter.
Pay the house first.
“I’ll handle it.”
Jason was quiet.
“You always say that.”
There was irritation in his voice now, almost accusation.
For the first time I understood something clearly: my struggling had made him uncomfortable because it reminded him of the responsibilities he’d abandoned.
If I failed, he could call the situation impossible.
If I survived, he’d have to face the possibility that impossibility had never been the whole reason he left.
“Goodbye, Jason.”
“Wait.
Sarah—”
I ended the call.
I didn’t feel victorious.
I felt finished.
That afternoon, the attorney confirmed the transfer process and provided documentation I could present to my mortgage company.
I called the same number that had terrified me the previous day.
The hold music seemed to last forever.
When a representative finally answered, I gave my account number and said I wanted written confirmation of the exact amount required to bring the loan current and halt the foreclosure process.
The representative repeated the figure.
A little under eighteen thousand dollars once updated fees were included.
My throat tightened anyway.
Numbers still had power over me.
But this time I had something on the other side of them.
“I can pay it,” I said.
There was a short silence while she accessed the account.
“You can satisfy the reinstatement amount?”
“Yes.”
It was the first time I’d said those words aloud.
I can pay it.
Not maybe.
Not if I get more hours.
Not if Jason comes back.
Not if somebody gives me another extension.
I can pay it.
The attorney coordinated the transfer, and I followed every instruction as carefully as if I were carrying glass.
I kept copies of every page.
Every confirmation number.
Every receipt.
For months I had avoided opening mail because I was afraid of what another envelope might contain.
