He Never Told Me We Were in Trouble

We had been married for eight years when the sheriff came to our door.

I was halfway through folding laundry, wearing the same old yoga pants I always wore on Saturdays. The kids were outside playing. Our dog was asleep on the couch.

I answered the door, expecting maybe a delivery or a political flyer. Instead, I was handed a notice. It was taped inside a clear plastic sleeve and stamped with a seal I didn’t recognize.

It was a notice of foreclosure.

I don’t remember what I said to the sheriff—probably nothing. I stood there for a long time, holding the paper in my hand like it might vanish if I stared at it hard enough.

When I went back inside, I found my husband in the garage.

“Do you know about this?” I asked, holding the paper up.

He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to. I saw it in his face.

He had known. For months.

He had stopped paying the mortgage six months earlier, convinced he’d find a way to catch up before anyone noticed. But the pay cuts kept coming. His freelance gigs dried up. Then our medical bills from my daughter’s asthma attack arrived like a tsunami. He told me later he wanted to protect me from the stress.

Instead, I felt betrayed. Blindsided. Completely unprepared.

That night, after we put the kids to bed, we sat at the kitchen table in silence. Then I cried—loud and long and ugly. He cried too. We didn’t know where to begin. All we knew was that the clock was ticking and we had no plan.

The next morning, I went to the grocery store to get milk. On the community bulletin board, tucked between a piano lesson flyer and a lost cat photo, was a simple business card with bold black text:

“4Closure Rescue – Honest Foreclosure Help."

I took the card. No hesitation. I didn’t tell my husband I was calling until after I had already dialed the number.

David Litt answered the phone himself.

“Hi,” I said. “My name is Amanda. I just found out we’re in foreclosure.”

He didn’t interrupt me. He didn’t make me feel stupid for not knowing what was going on. He just listened. And when I paused, he said, “You’re not alone. And you still have options.”

Over the next two weeks, David and the team at 4Closure Rescue became our lifeline.

They reviewed our documents, explained our rights, and laid out three possible paths: reinstatement, loan modification, or structured exit. They didn’t sugarcoat anything, but they gave us hope. Real hope—not the false kind that lenders dangle like bait.

We decided to pursue a loan modification. David helped us craft a hardship letter that was honest and powerful. He walked us through our income worksheets and helped us gather every document the lender would request—before they even asked.

It was stressful. There were nights we stayed up late rereading documents, second-guessing everything. But David was always just a phone call away. He even took a Sunday evening call when we were panicking about an email we didn’t understand.

Three weeks later, we were approved for a trial modification. And after three months of on-time payments, it became permanent.

We kept our home.

My husband and I still go to therapy to rebuild the trust that eroded during that time. But the weight of foreclosure is no longer between us. Instead, we have something new: gratitude. And strangely enough, we’re stronger for what we went through.

If you’ve found yourself in this situation—whether you saw it coming or got blindsided like I did—there’s someone who will listen. Someone who knows the way forward.