“He really is trying this time, honey,” she said. “He showed me his budget. He’s got everything mapped out perfectly. I know he’s let us down before… but he just needs a break. Let’s help him one more time!”
I stared at the loan papers on the kitchen table, reread the numbers twice, and signed.
Two months later, Drew moved out of state. He sent a text like it was casual news.
“Better opportunity. More money. More growth!”
And that was it. No phone call, no warning, just a message sandwiched between a meme and a joke about his new apartment view.
I told myself that this was a good thing. Maybe this was the start of something better for him.
But six months in, the calls started.
First, a voicemail from an unfamiliar number. Then another. And another.
Each call was for collections and late notices. It was the bank trying to reach someone about the unpaid loan. I sat in my car outside the grocery store, hands shaking as I returned the call. When they told me the balance, $30,000, I felt the world tilt.
Drew had made one payment.
