Chapter 4
The next morning, I woke before the alarm and lay still, listening to the house settle around me.
Mother's message remained on my phone.
The bank contacted me.
She hadn't asked what they said. She hadn't asked whether I was all right. The sentence felt less like information than a warning placed where I couldn't ignore it.
I got dressed, put the blue folder in my bag, and left before she came downstairs.
The campus financial-aid office occupied the first floor of an older brick building near the library. Rain had darkened the sidewalk, and students moved past me with backpacks pulled tight against their shoulders. I stood outside for a moment, looking through the glass at the rows of chairs and the small electronic sign-in screen.
I almost turned around.
Then I thought about the missing statements. Three months gone from the account history. Three months that might explain everything or nothing.
I went inside.
A receptionist named Carla asked me to take a seat. She wore a yellow cardigan and kept one hand on a stack of forms while she checked my student ID.
“I’m trying to understand my options for returning,” I said. “I don’t know what I can afford yet.”
“That’s what we’re here for.” She slid a clipboard toward me. “You don’t have to have every answer today.”
The words caught me off guard. I had spent so long believing I needed a complete plan before I was allowed to want anything.
An adviser named Mr. Patel called me into a small office. He pulled up my old enrollment information and explained the possibilities without making any of them sound easy. I could return part-time. I could apply for a payment plan. There were limited work-study positions and a deadline approaching for the next term.
“How soon could you start?” he asked.
“If I found the money?”
He nodded. “If you found a workable plan.”
I looked at the screen. My name sat at the top beside the program I had left.
“I want to come back,” I said.
Saying it aloud felt different from thinking it in the dark.
Mr. Patel printed a list of required steps. I folded the pages carefully and put them behind the bank receipt.
Outside, I called the woman in the blazer. She answered on the second ring.
“I met with financial aid,” I told her. “I can return if I arrange payment.”
“That gives you something concrete to work toward.”
“I’m not sure it gives me enough time.”
“Then we’ll keep the records moving while you make the school plan. Those are separate decisions.”
I appreciated that she didn't tell me to wait for my family to resolve the situation. She understood that my education couldn't remain suspended while everyone argued about whether I was entitled to ask questions.
When I got home, an envelope rested on the kitchen counter.
It had been opened.
The return address belonged to the mortgage company. I read the notice standing up. It mentioned a past-due amount, a deadline, and the possibility of further action if payment wasn't received.
I read it twice before my eyes focused.
Tyler's house.
Mother came in from the hallway carrying a laundry basket. She stopped when she saw the envelope in my hand.
“You shouldn’t be reading his mail.”
“It was open.”
“He left it there.”
“Why is it on the counter?”
Her mouth tightened. “Because we’re dealing with it.”
“Is this because of the account?”
“It’s because everything costs money, Drew.”
I placed the notice down between us. “I need to know whether the house can support repayment.”
Mother looked toward the doorway, as if Tyler might appear and save her from answering.
“You’re making decisions based on papers you barely understand.”
“That’s why I’m asking questions.”
“You heard what the woman said. If this becomes formal, they may demand everything back.”
“I didn’t make that demand.”
“You signed the request.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes settled on the blue folder inside my bag. “You’re going to put him out.”
“No. I’m trying to find out what happened.”
“You always say that like facts don't have consequences.”
I took the financial-aid papers from my bag and placed them beside the notice.
“I’m going back to school,” I said.
For the first time, Mother looked frightened in a way that wasn't directed at the bank.
“You don’t have the money.”
“I’m going to find a way.”
She stared at the two sets of papers—the house notice and my enrollment plan—as if they were connected by a wire neither of us could safely cut.
That evening, Tyler called.
I let it ring once, then answered.
“Mom said you went to campus.”
“I did.”
“Are you really going back?”
“I’m trying to.”
He exhaled slowly. “Drew, I need you to understand what this could do.”
“I understand what it already did.”
There was a pause.
“I didn’t know it was your school money,” he said.
I closed my eyes. “You said that before.”
“I knew family money helped with the house. I didn't know the whole amount came from an account with your name on it.”
“Then help me find out.”
He didn't answer right away.
Finally, he said, “I’ll think about it.”
When the call ended, the mortgage notice was still on the counter.
May you like
I put it back in the envelope, but I didn't return it to the stack of mail.
I kept it beside my blue folder.
