My daughter asked me to cover her wedding. I said, “No. I already helped you buy a house.” She called me cheap: “You’ll die before spending all your money anyway!” It hurt, but I smiled. That night, her fiancé called in a panic. He said, “She told me she’s going to leave me if I don’t convince you to pay. But Arthur, that’s not why I’m calling. I think she’s in trouble, and I don’t know who else to turn to.”
I gripped the phone tighter, my knuckles turning white. My daughter, Vanessa, has always been spirited, but this level of manipulation was new. Her fiancé, Marcus, was a good man. He was a high school history teacher with a steady head on his shoulders, the kind of guy who drove a ten-year-old sedan and didn’t complain about it. I liked him.
“No, not like that,” Marcus stammered, his voice cracking. “It’s about the house. The one you gave us the money for. Arthur, I found a letter in the mail today. It was a foreclosure warning. She hasn’t paid the mortgage in four months.”
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