The Morning We Became Homeless
The pounding on the door didn't sound like a delivery. It was aggressive, authoritative, and terrifying. I glanced at the clock: 6:00 AM. My husband was still in bed, but he wasn't sleeping. He was staring at the ceiling, tears streaming silently down his face. I opened the door to find two uniformed deputies. They didn't smile. They handed me a paper and gave us a command that shattered my reality: "You have 10 minutes to leave the premises."
I turned to my husband, expecting outrage, expecting him to fight. Instead, he fell to his knees on the bedroom floor and sobbed. Through the heaving breaths, the truth finally came out. He hadn't paid the mortgage in two years.
"He looked at our sleeping children and whispered, 'I lost it all. Every cent.'"
For 24 months, while I went to work and planned our summer vacations, he had been intercepting the mail. He hid every foreclosure warning and every final notice in the spare tire well of his trunk. The money I thought was going to the bank was actually going to an online casino. He had gambled away the Mortgage Money, our life savings, and even the kids' college funds.
We packed two suitcases while the Sheriff watched. We left the family photos on the wall. We left the toys in the yard. We walked out of the house we built together and into a used sedan, homeless and broken. He didn't just lose a house; he lost his family. I don't know where we will sleep tonight, but I know I will never sleep next to him again.
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