Then my sister’s name lit up my phone.
I expected small talk. Maybe another dreamy update about granite countertops and “good school districts.” Haley had been house-hunting like it was a personality trait—never mentioning the debt hiding under the glossy Pinterest vision.
The moment I answered, there was no hello.
No “How are you?”
Just momentum.
She launched into a rehearsed pitch: the perfect house, the lender ready, the seller motivated, the closing date close enough to taste. Every sentence pushed me toward the same conclusion, like it was the only logical outcome.
And then she dropped the number.
$150,000.
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