The Price of a Gambling Husband

The knock came at dusk. Amelia was stirring the pot of soup, her mind occupied with the usual evening routine—her son’s unfinished homework, the laundry piling up in the corner, and the silence that had grown between her and Henry. But this knock felt different, like a warning wrapped in the evening air.
Wiping her hands on a towel, she hesitated before opening the door. A tall man stood on the doorstep, his face half-hidden in the shadows. He wore a tailored suit, out of place in their modest neighborhood. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—cold and piercing—seemed to know more than she wanted to ask.
“Mrs. Thompson?” he inquired, his voice deep and detached.
Amelia nodded, her heart beating faster. Something about him sent a chill down her spine.
Without ceremony, the man reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Your husband,” he began, his tone almost casual, “has made some... poor choices. I’m here for the house.”
For a moment, Amelia couldn’t breathe. The room spun, her grip tightening on the doorframe as she tried to understand his words. The house? She thought of the late nights she’d spent working, the sacrifices she’d made to build a life for their children. And then, Henry’s face flashed before her—the long hours, the secret phone calls, the growing distance between them.
“What... what are you talking about?” she stammered, stepping back, her hand trembling.
The man’s eyes didn’t waver. “Your husband has been gambling, Mrs. Thompson. And he’s lost. Everything.”
Amelia’s world began to crumble around her, piece by piece. Her breath caught in her throat as the man stepped forward, his voice a sharp reminder that this was no dream.
“The price of your husband's addiction, Mrs. Thompson," he said, coldly, "is everything you’ve worked for.”

And so begins the unraveling of the life Amelia thought she knew.