The Letter on the Kitchen Table

The envelope was from the bank. My name was printed neatly in the corner like a formality. I knew what it was. My husband knew, too. We didn’t say a word to each other as we moved around the kitchen in silence. The only sound was the coffee dripping into the pot, and even that felt accusatory somehow.

“Notice of Default.” That’s what it said. A cold, impersonal phrase that carried so much weight.

We were three months behind on our mortgage. My husband had lost his job six weeks prior. He had picked up part-time work at a local hardware store, but it didn’t cover the bills. My own income from freelancing had dried up just when we needed it most. We tried to keep up appearances—smiling at neighbors, sending the kids to school with packed lunches, pretending we weren’t drowning.

But we were.

We were deep in debt. Behind on utilities. Scraping coins from under the couch cushions. And now the house—the home we brought both our kids into—was on the line.

For two days, the envelope sat unopened on the table. I couldn’t bring myself to read it. I’d walk by it, glance at it, and keep moving. My husband did the same. We both knew, and we both couldn’t face it.

On the third night, after the kids were asleep, I finally opened it. I read every line aloud while my husband sat next to me on the couch. The room was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat. I didn’t cry, not yet. I just sat there with the letter in my lap, thinking, This is it. This is how it ends.

But it wasn’t the end. Not yet.

The next morning, I went online looking for resources. I was expecting government links, vague suggestions, maybe some scammy-looking offers. But I stumbled across a comment on a community message board. Someone had shared their story—how they almost lost their home, how they found someone named David Litt at 4Closure Rescue, and how they made it through.

It was just a line in a post, but something about the way they wrote it felt... real. Human.

I hesitated for a moment, then picked up my phone and dialed the number they left. 224-344-5700.

David answered on the second ring.

I can’t explain it, but the minute I heard his voice, I felt like I could breathe again. He didn’t rush me. He didn’t feed me lines. He just listened.

He asked questions—smart ones—and then said, “You’re not out of options. Not even close.”

In the days that followed, 4Closure Rescue helped us file a hardship letter, gather our documents, and start the loan modification process. David explained everything without talking down to us. He coached us through calls with our lender. He even told us what to say when they tried to push us toward forbearance instead of a modification.

We submitted everything. We waited. And while it wasn’t fast, and it certainly wasn’t easy, the outcome was one I had dared not imagine: We kept the house.

We’re still here—still in the same kitchen. That envelope is now in a drawer in our hallway, tucked beneath old photos and tax papers. I can’t throw it away. I never will. It’s a reminder of how close we came to losing everything, and how close we came to giving up—until someone helped us see another way.

If you’re reading this and you feel like there’s no one left to call, I promise you this: call David Litt at 4Closure Rescue. He won’t talk down to you. He won’t judge. He’ll help.

224-344-5700. Write it down. Stick it on your fridge. Save it in your phone. I did.And because of that one call, I’m writing this from my kitchen table—in my home, not a shelter.