You’d think that being a single mother of two would’ve taught me to question every detail before signing anything, especially something as significant as a loan. But when it comes to family, specifically Drew, I’ve always had a soft spot.
And I’ve learned that people with soft spots tend to get bruised.
It started last fall.
Life was steady, not easy but steady. I had finally figured out a routine that worked for us. My daughter, Sam, was in the fifth grade, still carrying around a backpack almost as big as she was, always scribbling in the margins of her notebooks.
My son, Noah, had just started seventh grade. He was teetering on the edge of adolescence, all elbows and mood swings, trying to find his place in a middle school that suddenly felt too big.
Their father, Jeremy, was still loosely in the picture. He showed up when it was convenient; birthdays, the occasional school concert, and sometimes remembered to send child support.
But day to day, the parenting fell to me. It always had.
Then Drew called.
