Three years ago, I was finally catching my breath after years of struggle. I’d just sold my flower shop, a small haven I had poured my heart into after college.
With no debts and a modest nest egg, I was ready to pause and figure out what my next chapter might look like.
Then the phone rang.
It was Lisa, sounding frantic. She and her husband, Rick, were in deep trouble — mortgage payments behind, bills mounting, and foreclosure looming.
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Most days, Edward Grant’s penthouse feels more like a museum than a home: pristine, cold, lifeless. His nine-year-old son, Noah, hasn’t moved or spoken in years. The…
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