Part 2: They kicked my six-year-old daughter and me out into the cold, completely forgetting that I was the only reason the bank hadn't seized their house three years ago.

December thirty-first arrived with bitter frost and the quiet calm that follows a major holiday. For the first time in three years, I didn't have to scramble to make sure my checking balance covered both my rent and their mortgage payment before the first of the month.

Instead, I took Lily to the city library. We spent the afternoon in the children's section, picking out a stack of books about space and sea turtles. Lily smiled genuinely for the first time since Christmas Eve, laughing as she tried to balance three heavy hardcovers on her head.

While she was reading with the librarian during afternoon story hour, I sat at a study carrel and checked my email.

There was a message from Marcus Vance, the branch manager at First National. Marcus had been my contact when I renegotiated my parents' forbearance plan three years ago. He was a no-nonsense man in his late fifties who knew the exact financial state of every family in our small county.

*Maya,* the email read.

*I noticed the revocation of your automatic debit authorization for the 714 Maple Street account. As you know, the grace period for the restructured terms expires on the 5th of January. Because the loan was previously in default, there is an accelerated balloon clause. Without your active guarantor profile, the full monthly payment of $2,450 plus an escrow adjustment will be due immediately from the primary deed holders. If not received by January 10th, the file returns straight to foreclosure status. Please call me if this was done in error.*

I opened a reply window.

*Marcus,* I wrote. *It was not an error. I have officially terminated my financial assistance to the residents of 714 Maple Street. Please direct all future correspondence, bills, and legal notices exclusively to Arthur and Eleanor Campbell. Thank you for your professionalism over the years.*

I hit send.

Ten minutes later, my phone vibrated in my purse. Since I had blocked Rachel, this call came from an unfamiliar landline.

I swiped to answer. "Hello?"

"Maya."

It was my father’s voice. It sounded thinner than usual, cracked around the edges.

"Hello, Dad."

"Your mother hasn't slept in three days," he said. He didn't ask how Lily was. He didn't ask how our Christmas turned out. "She got a notification from the bank this morning. Maya, you can't do this. We’re your parents."

"Dad," I said calmly, leaning back against the wooden chair. "Rachel lives in that house rent-free. She’s twenty-six years old. She works as an aesthetician and makes thirty dollars an hour plus tips. Between the two of you and her, you have three adults under that roof. You can cover the mortgage."

"You know Rachel is saving for her wedding!" he snapped, a rare flash of anger cutting through his usual lethargy. "She can't afford twelve hundred dollars a month! And my pension barely covers the groceries and the heat!"

"Then you should downsize," I replied. "Sell the house. Move into an apartment like the one Lily and I live in."

"Sell?" His voice rose, squeaking with panic. "This is our family home! Where are the holidays supposed to happen? Where are the grandchildren supposed to gather?"

"I don't know, Dad," I said, looking over at Lily, who was pointing at a picture of Saturn and giggling with another little girl. "Because the only grandchild you have wasn't welcome there anyway."