“Foreclosure at Twenty-Four

Nobody thinks they’ll face foreclosure at twenty-four.

But I did.

I bought my condo when I was twenty-two. It was a one-bedroom on the third floor of a small brick building just outside of the city. The floors creaked. The appliances were older than me. But it was mine. I used to stare at the front door with my name on the mailbox and think, I made it.

For a while, I had.

I was working in marketing. Not rolling in money, but enough to cover my mortgage, groceries, student loans, and the occasional Friday night pizza with friends. Then came the layoffs. Then came my partner’s cancer diagnosis. Suddenly, everything shifted.

My days were no longer built around work and weekends. They were built around chemo schedules, pharmacy runs, medical bills that stacked like playing cards, and the aching, dull anxiety that crept in whenever I opened my bank app.

I stopped paying the mortgage.

At first, I told myself it was temporary. “Just one month behind. I’ll catch up.” Then it was two. Then three. Then the letter came. A foreclosure notice. It felt like a physical blow to the chest.

I didn’t tell anyone. Not my mom, who would’ve worried herself sick. Not my best friend, who had just started planning her wedding. I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want judgment. I just wanted out of the hole I’d fallen into.

That night, I sat in my car outside of a Walgreens parking lot, too ashamed to go home. I started Googling: foreclosure help, how to stop a foreclosure, legal options for young homeowners.

Most of what I found felt cold. Legal jargon. Forms. Ads that screamed, “WE BUY HOUSES FAST.” I wanted none of it.

But then I saw a quiet link buried in a forum post. Someone wrote,

“If you feel like you’re drowning, call David Litt at 4Closure Rescue. He’s not a miracle worker—but he’s the next best thing.”

I don’t know why I clicked. But I did. And I saved the number: 224-344-5700.

I called the next morning. My voice cracked when I said my name. I was sure I sounded like a child.

David didn’t flinch.

He didn’t talk to me like I was stupid for not knowing the system. He didn’t make me feel small for missing payments. He just asked me to breathe. Then, step by step, he asked the right questions.

What had changed financially?

What did I want, ideally?

Was I emotionally prepared to keep fighting for the condo—or was I looking for a peaceful exit?

That last question hit hard. No one had asked me what I wanted. Not the banks, not the collection calls, not even myself.

In the end, we chose the path of modification. David and his team at 4Closure Rescue helped me draft a hardship letter. They reviewed my financials. They explained the process with patience and clarity. They even role-played phone calls with my lender so I’d feel confident enough to speak up.

Six weeks later, my trial modification was approved. Three months after that, it became permanent. My payment dropped by $312 a month. I cried again—but this time, out of relief.

I still live in that creaky one-bedroom condo. The mail still comes. But now, it’s letters from my niece and flyers for local takeout—not threats.

If you’re young and you feel like you’ve already failed, I want you to know something: you haven’t.

You’re allowed to ask for help. You’re allowed to fight for your future. And you’re allowed to do it without shame.

Start by calling someone who actually listens.