I check it now. The balance is high enough to make small black and red spots dance in my vision. Years of stay-home toddler moms stuck in the carousel of home sale parties. “I’ll go to yours if you come to mine.” Years of “bargain hunting.” Years of lying to myself that I was going to support myself by flipping this stuff, years of being unable to let any of it go.

Years of minimum payments. More interest. I’m never going to pay this off. The best I can hope for is to keep it from being overdue. It’s been that way for a long time, but until the past month or so, I’ve never been worried about not being able to pay the mortgage.

Browsing the internet for “how many mortgage payments can you miss before you lose your house” fans my anxiety into an inferno. The lilt of laughter floats down the stairs from Eli’s room. I can’t tell if he’s got a friend over that I didn’t know about, or he’s talking on the phone.

I get a wineglass from the cupboard. The wine doesn’t do much but churn in my stomach and make my fingers clumsy. I think about the pills I flushed away. I’d kept that stash for a decade without taking a single pill, but the need, the craving, the yearning for oblivion rises up inside me now with such ferocity I almost start to cry.

I don’t deserve to have my entire life ruined because I made stupid mistakes. And not only my life—Eli’s life would be ruined, too, because of my bad choices.

Another burst of laughter, some words I can’t make out, come from upstairs. I close out of all the browser tabs. I force myself to sit up straight. There is no way I’m going to lose this house and turn my son’s life inside out. A few more taps of the keyboard take me to some local sale groups where you can list items. I can start, at least, with the home party stuff I have stashed all around the house.

I check out listings, my heart sinking with each one. Everyone’s trying to unload this crap. Page after page of leggings, candles, food choppers. At least I’m not trying to sell anything with an expiration date like spices or beer bread mixes. Box lots seem to be the best way to go. I won’t make back even half of what I spent, but it’s better than nothing.

The warmth of the wine has finally kicked in, but having a solid plan is what really intoxicates me. Tomorrow, I will go to my storage unit, and I will spend the day sorting and boxing up all of that stuff. I will list it, I will sell it, and, no matter how much it pains my husband to not be the sole breadwinner, I will check in with the temp agency and see about getting something at least part-time. This living on the edge is bullshit. I am better than this. I can be better than this.