The living room smelled like old tea and sadness. A small fan turned slowly above, only pushing around the dust that lay on the family photos. I stood at the door, watching my parents. My father sat with his shoulders bent, and my mother wiped her face with trembling hands. A single sheet of paper lay between them. The numbers written on it looked like blame.

“We don’t have the money, dear,” my mother said softly. The sound made my heart ache.