The letter felt very heavy in my shaky hands, way more than the fifty thousand dollars in it. I looked at the clean bills, my mind slow to make sense of it all. Who had so much cash just to give away? And why give it to us?

"Izzy?" Grace's voice broke my thoughts. She was in the doorway of our dad's study, her work clothes messy from her shift at the hospital. Dark rings under her eyes made her look older than her nineteen years. "What's that?"

I quickly hid the letter, my heart pounding. "Nothing big. Just... sorry notes."

But Grace wasn't fooled. She stepped up, looking sharp despite her tiredness. "Sorry notes don't come in plain letters with money, Izzy. What is going on?"

Before I could talk, Mom showed up behind Grace, moving slowly through her own house. Her hair was dull around her face, and she had on the same black dress from this morning. Seeing her hurt me all over again.

"Girls," she said in a low voice, barely heard. "I can't... I can't handle this. I can't plan a goodbye. I can't make choices. I can't—"

"Mom, hey." I went to her, holding her as she shook. "Don't do anything. I'll take care of it all."

I said it without thinking, but as soon as the words were out, the big task hit me hard. I was twenty-two, still in school, still figuring out my own path. How was I to plan a goodbye? How was I to keep us all okay when I was just holding on?

"We need to talk," Grace said calmly, her nurse skills showing as she led Mom to sit. "About everything. About Dad's work, about the home, about how to pay for school."

My heart sank. In all the sad mess, I had not thought of those hard things. The scary, huge things that don't stop just because your world has crashed.

"What about your school costs?" I asked, though I felt sick knowing the answer already.

Grace looked sad for a second. "I called the financial aid office. Dad's death benefit... it's not enough. And without his income..." She stopped, swallowing hard. "I might have to leave school, Izzy. I'm so close to the end, but I can't pay to stay."

"No." I said it strongly. "No way. You're not leaving. You'll be a doctor, Grace. Dad always said—"

"Dad's gone!" Grace's voice cracked on the last word, and she covered her mouth, shocked. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean... I just mean that what Dad wanted doesn't matter now. What matters is making it."

Mom made a small noise from the chair, and I felt the room close in. Every breath was hard. Every heartbeat was a reminder that he had stopped.

"I'll work it out," I heard myself say. "I'll leave school. I'll work, I'll—"

"No!" Grace held my arm. "Izzy, you're almost done. You have that job lined up with Morrison & Associates. You can't give up your dream of building things."

"It's just school," I lied, hating the taste of the words. My dream wasn't just about school—it was all I had hoped for, all I had worked for. But seeing my sister so broken, watching my mom lost in her sadness, I knew dreams were things we couldn't have now.

The phone rang, breaking the thick quiet. I picked up without thinking, needing any break from the tough choices filling my head.

"Izzy?" Richard's voice was kind, full of worry. "How are you holding up, dear?"

"I..." I choked up. "I don't know how to do this, Richard. I don't know how to be strong. I can't save us."

"Oh, sweetie." His voice was soft, full of care. "You're not alone. I told you last night—I'm here to help."

I looked at the letter still in my hand. "Richard, about this money—"

"We'll talk tomorrow. Right now, you need to get through tonight." He paused, and I heard paper sounds. "I've arranged the funeral. It's all set."

I felt relief, then guilt. I should be doing this. I should be strong enough to handle it.

"I've also checked your family's financial situation," he went on. "I knew your dad well enough to know he'd want me to help you see it clearly."

"What situation?" My voice was just a whisper.

"We should talk face to face. I'll come by tomorrow after the funeral director visits. We'll sit and talk about options."

Options. The word felt like hope and fear all mixed up.

After hanging up, I saw Grace and Mom just where I left them. Mom stared at nothing while Grace held her hand, tears falling.

"I called in sick," Grace said, not looking up. "I can't act fine right now."

"You don't have to act," I said, sinking into Dad's chair. It still smelled of his cologne, and for a second, I almost thought he was in the next room.

"Izzy," Grace's voice was small, unsure. "What do we do now?"

I looked around the room—at the family photos, at Dad's glasses still folded on his desk, at the half-done crossword he'd never finish. This house was filled with twenty-two years of memories, of birthday joys and Christmas mornings and quiet Sundays.

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"We'll sort it out," I said, trying to sound sure. "We'll lay Dad to rest right, and we'll keep us all together. We'll do what we must."

Grace gave a nod, but I saw worry in her eyes. The same worry that gnawed at me too.

That night, I was back in my old room, eyes on the ceiling, thinking hard. Dad's life cover would only pay the home loan for half a year. One term for Grace's school. Mom's bills for her sad moods. I worked the numbers over and over, but they never matched up.

I thought about the cash in the pack, about Richard's vow to lend a hand, about the "choices" he hinted at. Maybe I was just scared, but it all felt wrong. Dad was fine when I rang him last week. Tired, sure, but fine. Now he was gone, and here was Richard, like he was some savior.

But what else could I do? We were sinking, and Richard seemed the only one with a rope.

I must have slept at some point, for the next thing I knew, the sun was in my room and Grace was waking me.

"Izzy, he's here," she said quietly. "Richard's here, and there's someone with him. Looks like a lawyer."

I went downstairs in my sleepwear to find Richard and a sharp-dressed man at our table. They stood as I came in, and Richard's smile was kind, yet colder than the day before.

"Izzy, meet Thomas Brennan, my lawyer. I brought him to talk clearly about your family's situation."

Thomas pulled out some papers from his case. "I'm sorry for your loss, Miss Carter. Your dad was a good man."

"Thank you," I replied, feeling a chill. Why a lawyer to discuss our finances?

"The thing is," Thomas said, "it's more difficult than Richard said before. Your dad's business owes a lot to folks. The house is worth less than its loans. Without your dad's income..."

He laid out the papers. Numbers jumped at me—numbers big enough to make my head spin and my stomach twist.

"Simply put," Thomas said softly, "you have about eight weeks before they take the house. Grace's school fees are due in six weeks. Your mom's bills are adding up."

I felt the room spin. Eight weeks. We had eight weeks before we lost it all.

"However," added Richard, touching my shoulder, "I might have a way out. It's not usual, but it might fix everything for your family."

I looked at him. This man who was almost like another dad to me, who taught me to drive, who was there for my school events. His gray eyes had a look I couldn't place, something that made me uneasy.

"What way?" I asked.