The calls started at 6:47 the next morning.
Mom, 8:00 a.m.: We need to talk. Call me immediately.
Kevin, 8:15 a.m.: What you did yesterday was unbelievable. Call Mom.
Ashley, 10:45 a.m.: Please just help them. I know you’re hurt, but they’re desperate.
I silenced my phone and went to work.
By noon, I had 23 missed calls and 47 text messages. The messages got progressively more desperate.
Mom, 8:15 a.m.: The bank called. We need to make a payment by Wednesday.
Kevin, 9:30 a.m.: I talked to some colleagues. They said you’re right about bankruptcy, but Mom won’t hear it.
Ashley, 10:45 a.m.: Dad’s blood pressure is through the roof. Please.
Mom, 11:20 a.m.: We can negotiate. You can set terms. Just please help us.
I responded to one message.
Kevin: Marcus Webb’s number is 206-555-0147. He’s expecting their call. I’ve already paid his consultation fee.
Kevin: They won’t call him.
Me: Then they don’t want solutions.
I returned to my client work—a portfolio review for a CTO who had just received a $2 million stock grant. He needed tax strategy. This was what I was good at. This was what I’d built.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
“Maya Chin? Miss Chin, this is Marcus Webb. I just received a call from your parents.”
My heart rate picked up. “They called you?”
“Your father did. Brief conversation. He wanted to know if you’d paid me to tell them to file bankruptcy.”
“What did you say?”
“That I haven’t reviewed their books yet and wouldn’t make recommendations without data. He hung up.”
Of course he did.
“Thank you for trying,” I said.
“For what it’s worth, your offer was generous. Most children wouldn’t pay for professional help after being treated the way you described.”
“They’re still my parents.”
“They’re lucky you remember that.”
By Wednesday, the messages changed tone.
Dad: The bank is starting foreclosure proceedings on the house. I hope you’re happy.
Not happy. Firm.
I didn’t respond.
Thursday afternoon, Ashley showed up at my building.