There has always been laughter and love in my family. My parents occasionally argued, but those moments stood in the shadow of happier times. We lived quite an ordinary life. Mum often told me how tough things were after I was born she and Dad worked relentlessly, doing their best to make ends meet, never once regretting my arrival.
I reached twenty, believing wholeheartedly that my family was just like any other. Mum and Dad were supportive in every way, helping me move out, offering guidance, and even lending me money when I searched for a job after university. I suppose I could have coasted on like that for years, maybe even decades, had it not been for a bout of terrible luck Dad had an accident on the bus coming home from work. A car collided with them. There were more injured than dead, but fate dealt our family a cruel hand and we ended up amongst those who lost someone dear.
Whilst we mourned Dad, feeling utterly lost without him, strange phone calls started coming in. We expected condolences, so Mum and I answered questions about Dad, thinking nothing of it. Then the letters began pouring in, bills and notices from banks and all sorts of legal entities.
It turned out Dad had taken out loans wherever he could. Hed kept it all secret from us. Mum and I had no idea, and apparently hed tried desperately to pay back what amounted to an enormous debt, but managed to clear barely a third. Theres no way Mum or I could pay it off in our lifetimes and now, all those debts are ours.
How I saw my father changed completely. No one ever believed hed do something like this, or hide such a secret from us. The question that torments and infuriates Mum more than anything is where he actually put the money that he borrowed.
We lived modestly, our flat bought by Mums parents, renovations paid for by Dads parents. We never had a car or anything expensive. Why, then, did Dad borrow so much, and what on earth did he spend it on? I suspect well never truly know.
