The knock came just after sunrise on a quiet Tuesday morning. The kind of knock that tells you something serious is about to happen. I already knew why they were there. I had known for weeks.
I stood frozen in my doorway, my four-year-old daughter pressed against my shoulder, her arms tight around my neck. My seven-year-old son stayed close behind me, gripping my leg as if letting go might make everything fall apart. Down the hallway stairs came heavy footsteps. One after another. Thirty men in leather vests filled the landing, their presence overwhelming the narrow space.
“This is it,” he said flatly. “You’ve had enough time.”
My heart dropped. I had begged for patience before. I had explained. I had tried. None of it mattered now.
A Morning Filled With Fear
I had imagined this moment so many times that it felt unreal when it finally arrived. I had packed small bags the night before, just in case. A few clothes for the kids. Family photos I couldn’t bear to lose. Important papers tucked into an old backpack.
Still, nothing prepares you for seeing strangers show up to remove what little stability you have left.
My daughter began to cry softly. My son’s grip tightened. I could feel his fear before he even spoke.
“Please,” I said quietly. “I get paid at the end of the week. I can give you something. Just a little more time.”
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