The weeks following my father’s funeral were a blur of grief and terrifying math.
My dad was a proud man, a blue-collar worker in Columbus who never liked to talk about money. He always said, “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.”
But looking at the stack of bills on his dining room table, it was clear he didn’t have it covered. Not even close.
Between the hospital stay, the ambulance rides, and the funeral home costs, we were looking at $25,000 in immediate debt. That didn’t even include the remaining mortgage on his house.
I checked his bank account. Balance: $412.
I sat in his old leather chair and put my head in my hands. I was going to lose his house. I might even lose my own savings trying to fix this mess.