The Foreclosure: When Silent Sacrifice Becomes Strategic Power

There’s a particular kind of betrayal that only family can deliver—the kind that arrives wrapped in love and justification, where theft gets reframed as sacrifice and your pain becomes someone else’s punchline. The kind where the people who raised you look at everything you’ve built and decide it was never really yours at all.

That’s what happened the day my parents sold my apartment to fund my sister’s wedding. And that’s the day I stopped being the daughter who gave everything and became the woman who took it all back.

My name is Imani Washington. I’m twenty-nine years old, a luxury interior designer with clients across three states, and the kind of person who’s been told her entire life that she should be grateful, flexible, understanding—all the words families use when they need you to shrink so someone else can expand.

This is the story of how I stopped shrinking.

Let me start with the apartment, because everything begins and ends there.

The Buckhead condo was a two-bedroom corner unit on the eighteenth floor with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Atlanta skyline. Hardwood floors, marble countertops, a kitchen I’d renovated myself with contacts from design projects. It had a balcony where I drank my morning coffee watching the city wake up, a walk-in closet I’d converted into a drafting studio, and a sense of permanence I’d never felt anywhere else.

I bought it when I was twenty-four years old—impossibly young for real estate in one of Atlanta’s most expensive neighborhoods, but I’d been working toward it since I was nineteen.

The down payment was ninety thousand dollars, assembled from sources that represented five years of relentless hustle: a full-ride scholarship to SCAD that let me graduate debt-free, prize money from three national design competitions, freelance projects I took on while other people my age were sleeping or socializing, a small inheritance from my grandmother who’d always believed I’d do something significant.

I saved every dollar that wasn’t absolutely necessary for survival. I lived with roommates in cheap apartments while working at a prestigious design firm during the day and taking private clients at night. I ate ramen and pasta and whatever was on sale. I wore the same professional wardrobe for three years, rotating pieces and adding accessories to create the illusion of variety.

And I made it happen. At twenty-four, I had ninety thousand dollars in cash and pre-approval for a mortgage that would let me buy a place in Buckhead.

That’s when my parents got involved.

My father, Marcus Washington, had been a mid-level manager at a logistics company before early retirement. My mother, Diane, was a real estate agent—successful enough to project expertise, not successful enough to have avoided her own financial mistakes. They’d raised me and my younger sister Alicia in Alpharetta in a house that always looked impressive but that I’d later learn was mortgaged to the point of fragility.

When I told them I was buying a condo, they were initially thrilled. Their daughter, not even twenty-five, buying property in Buckhead. It was the kind of accomplishment they could brag about at church, at family gatherings, to their friends who were still supporting adult children living at home.

Then my mother saw the numbers and her tone changed.

“Imani, honey, have you thought about your credit? You’re so young. First-time homebuyers often get better rates with co-signers. Your father and I could help with that—just put our names on the deed as co-owners, and you’ll qualify for better terms.”

“I already have good credit,” I said. “I’ve been building it since college. My interest rate is competitive.”

“But it could be better. And sweetheart, what if something happens? What if you lose your job or can’t make payments? Having our names on there protects you. We can step in if needed. It’s just smart planning.”

My father nodded along. “Your mother knows real estate. This is good advice, Imani. Don’t let pride get in the way of making a smart financial decision.”

I was twenty-four years old, exhausted from years of overwork, and conditioned by a lifetime of being told that questioning my parents meant I was being disrespectful or ungrateful. So I agreed.

We structured the purchase with all three names on the deed—mine, Marcus Washington’s, and Diane Washington’s. My mother explained that we were joint owners with rights of survivorship, which she framed as protecting my investment in case anything happened to me.

What she didn’t emphasize, and what I didn’t understand until much later, was that this structure gave them the legal authority to make decisions about the property without my consent.

I made the ninety-thousand-dollar down payment from my savings. I was listed as the primary borrower on the mortgage. But the deed listed all three of us as equal owners.

“It’s just a formality,” my mother assured me. “You’re doing all the work. We’re just here for support.”

For five years, that’s exactly how it seemed to work.

I paid every mortgage bill. Every property tax installment. Every HOA fee. Every insurance premium. Every maintenance cost. Every single expense associated with that apartment came from my checking account, month after month, for sixty consecutive months.

I never missed a payment. I never even came close. I was meticulous about my finances in the way that people are when they’ve had to build everything from nothing and know that one mistake can erase years of progress.

My parents’ names sat on the deed like signatures on a card you keep in a drawer—present, technically meaningful, but practically irrelevant. They never contributed a dollar. They never questioned my payments. They never involved themselves in any decision about the property.

They just let me build equity in something they legally owned as much as I did.

Meanwhile, my career was taking off. The freelance projects that had funded my down payment became the foundation of my own design firm. By twenty-seven, I had corporate clients, residential clients, and a reputation for creating spaces that felt both luxurious and livable. I was making more money than either of my parents ever had, traveling for work, featured in regional design publications.

And through it all, I lived in my Buckhead condo, the place that represented everything I’d worked for, and felt proud of what I’d built.

I had no idea the foundation was quicksand.

My sister Alicia is three years younger than me—twenty-six, beautiful, charming, and the kind of person who’s always believed life should arrange itself around her preferences.

Where I’d worked multiple jobs to pay for college, Alicia had chosen an expensive private school and graduated with significant debt she made no effort to pay off. Where I’d saved aggressively, Alicia spent freely, funded by my parents who saw her financial irresponsibility as a phase rather than a pattern.

She’d always been the favorite—not because they didn’t love me, but because I didn’t need the same level of intervention. I was responsible, self-sufficient, the daughter who solved her own problems. Alicia required constant rescue, which my parents interpreted as being needed rather than being enabling.

When Alicia got engaged to Brandon, a perfectly nice man who worked in pharmaceutical sales, my parents were ecstatic. Finally, their youngest daughter was settling down, getting married, becoming respectable in the way that mattered to their social circle.

The wedding planning began immediately and quickly spiraled into something extravagant.

Alicia wanted the St. Regis Atlanta. She wanted three hundred guests. She wanted a designer gown, a live band, premium open bar, elaborate floral installations. She wanted the kind of wedding that would be featured on social media and remembered for years.

The estimated cost quickly climbed past two hundred thousand dollars, then two hundred fifty thousand, then three hundred thousand.

My parents were thrilled to support their daughter’s dream wedding. The problem was that they didn’t have three hundred thousand dollars. They didn’t have a hundred thousand dollars. They barely had twenty thousand dollars in accessible savings after years of living slightly beyond their means and bailing Alicia out of various financial mistakes.

But they had something else: their names on the deed to a Buckhead condo worth nearly half a million dollars.

I was in Los Angeles meeting with a client—a tech executive who wanted his entire penthouse redesigned—when my phone started vibrating incessantly. Three calls from my mother in rapid succession, then two texts: “Call me back!” and “Big news!”

I excused myself from the meeting and stepped into the corridor, calling her back while assuming there’d been some family emergency.

“Mom? What’s wrong? Is everyone okay?”

Her voice was bright, excited, bubbling with enthusiasm that immediately felt wrong.

“Oh baby, everyone’s fine! Better than fine. I have amazing news. Are you sitting down?”

“I’m standing in a hallway in Los Angeles. What’s going on?”

“We sold your Buckhead condo! All cash, four hundred eighty thousand dollars. The closing was yesterday—so smooth, Imani, you’d have been so proud of how I handled it. The buyer is taking possession in thirty days, which gives you plenty of time to pack. Isn’t this perfect timing?”

I remember the sensation of the floor tilting beneath me, my vision narrowing, my brain refusing to process what I’d just heard.

“What… what are you talking about? You sold my apartment?”

“Well, we sold the condo that we all own together. Your father and I are listed on the deed, remember? We have the legal authority to make these decisions. And sweetheart, the money is going to such a beautiful purpose—Alicia’s wedding! The St. Regis ballroom, the gown she’s been dreaming about, everything she deserves for her special day. You’re giving your baby sister the wedding of her dreams. Isn’t that wonderful?”

My hand was shaking so badly I had to brace myself against the wall.

“Mom, I bought that apartment. I made the down payment. I’ve paid every single mortgage payment for five years. You can’t just sell it.”

Her tone shifted—not to apologetic, but to a practiced patience usually reserved for explaining obvious things to difficult people.

“Imani, honey, you’re being emotional right now, and I understand. Change is hard. But legally, your father and I are co-owners. Our names are on the deed in equal standing to yours. We absolutely have the right to sell the property, and we did. I made sure everything was handled properly—I’m a real estate professional, after all. The closing was clean, the buyer paid cash, and the money has already been transferred.”

“To your account.”

“To our account, yes. Because we’re the sellers of record. Imani, I know you put work into that place, and we appreciate it. But you’re twenty-nine years old living alone in an expensive condo you don’t really need. Alicia is starting her married life. She needs this support. Sometimes being a family means making sacrifices for each other. Parents have to make hard decisions. That’s what responsible adults do.”

I had to end the call before I said something I couldn’t take back. “I have to go. I’m in the middle of a client meeting.”

“Oh, before you go—the buyer is giving you thirty days to move out. That’s generous, considering they didn’t have to offer any transition period. Make sure you coordinate with their attorney to return the keys. Love you, baby!”

She hung up before I could respond.

I stood in that hallway for twenty minutes, unable to move, unable to think, unable to process that my parents had just stolen nearly half a million dollars from me and framed it as a gift to my sister.

The flight back to Atlanta was the longest five hours of my life. I spent it alternating between rage, grief, and the systematic mental inventory of what I’d just lost.

Not just the apartment itself, though that was devastating—the first space I’d ever owned, the home I’d decorated exactly to my taste, the place where I’d built my business and my adult life.

But also the equity. Five years of mortgage payments meant I’d built up substantial ownership stake. At four hundred eighty thousand dollars sale price with my original ninety-thousand-dollar down payment, even splitting the proceeds three ways would have given me back significant money.

Except my parents weren’t planning to split the proceeds. They’d already made that clear. The money was for Alicia’s wedding, which meant I was getting nothing while they pocketed my equity and my years of payment.

I’d been robbed by the people who raised me, and they thought it was funny.

When I landed in Atlanta, I drove directly to a real estate attorney’s office—a woman named Patricia Morris who’d been recommended by a colleague and who agreed to see me immediately after I explained the situation.

I showed her all my documentation: bank records proving five years of mortgage payments from my account, the original purchase documents, the deed showing the ownership structure, emails and texts about the sale my mother had sent while I was in Los Angeles.

Patricia reviewed everything carefully, her expression growing progressively more grim.

“Ms. Washington, I’m very sorry, but legally speaking, your parents did nothing wrong.”

“How can that be? It’s my apartment. I paid for everything.”

“You paid the mortgage, yes. But you don’t own the property—not exclusively. All three names are listed on the deed as joint owners with rights of survivorship. Under Georgia law, this means any owner can initiate a sale. The proceeds should technically be split equally among all owners, but if two owners agree to distribute the money differently, there’s no legal mechanism to force equal distribution if you’re not involved in the sale process.”

“So I have no recourse? They can just steal half a million dollars?”

“You could sue for your share of the proceeds, arguing that your consistent payment of all expenses entitled you to greater equity. But proving that case would require extensive documentation and would likely take years to litigate. And even if you won, you’d only be entitled to your third of the equity, not the full value of what you’ve paid. The court would consider the original ownership structure, not the payment history.”

“What about fraud? They lied about why they wanted to be on the deed.”

“Verbal assurances from five years ago are nearly impossible to prove and don’t invalidate a legal deed structure you agreed to. I’m sorry, Ms. Washington. Your parents understood real estate law and structured this in a way that gave them maximum leverage. On paper, they played this perfectly.”

I left her office feeling more hopeless than I’d ever felt in my life.

My parents had engineered my dispossession years in advance, probably without even realizing they were doing it, just by insisting on a deed structure that protected their interests over mine.

And there was nothing I could do about it.

Or so I thought.

That night, I sat in a hotel room—I couldn’t bear going back to the apartment that was no longer mine—and tried to think through my options.

I could fight them in court, spending years and tens of thousands of dollars for a chance at recovering a fraction of what they’d taken.

I could cut them off, refuse to attend Alicia’s wedding, permanently damage my relationship with my entire family over money and principle.

Or I could accept the loss, move on, rebuild from nothing for the second time in my life while watching my sister enjoy a three-hundred-thousand-dollar party funded by my stolen equity.

None of these options felt satisfying. None of them felt like justice.

That’s when I remembered something I’d been trying to forget for eight years.

In 2015, when I was twenty-one years old and finishing my junior year at SCAD, my father called me at two in the morning. His voice was shaking—fear or shame or both.

“Imani, I need to tell you something, and I need you not to tell your mother yet.”

“Dad, what’s wrong?”

“The house. The Alpharetta house. We’re going to lose it. We’re three months behind on the mortgage, and the bank has started foreclosure proceedings. We have maybe thirty days before it’s finalized.”

I was too young to fully process what he was telling me, but I understood enough to be terrified. My parents losing their house meant chaos—meant my younger sister’s stability destroyed, meant my family’s social standing obliterated, meant consequences that would ripple through all of our lives.

“How did this happen?”

“Your mother made some investments that didn’t work out. We took equity out of the house to fund them, and the monthly payments got too high. We’ve been trying to manage it, but we couldn’t catch up. Imani, I know I shouldn’t ask this, but is there any way you could help? Just for a few months until we get things sorted out?”

I had about fifteen thousand dollars saved at that point—money I’d been planning to use after graduation to move to Atlanta and start my career properly.

“How much do you need?”

“The mortgage is four thousand, one hundred fifty dollars a month. If you could cover it for maybe three or four months while we figure out our finances, we could avoid foreclosure and get back on track.”

I sent them the first payment the next day. Then the next month. Then the next month after that.

The “three or four months” became a year. The year became two years. Two years became five years, then eight years.

For eight years, I had been paying my parents’ mortgage. Forty-nine thousand, eight hundred dollars annually. Nearly four hundred thousand dollars total by the time they sold my apartment.

They’d never asked me to stop. Never told me they could afford it again. Never acknowledged that I’d been subsidizing their entire life for almost a decade.

I just kept paying, because when I’d asked about stopping after the first year, my mother had gotten teary and said, “Imani, we’re still struggling. If you stop now, we’ll lose everything. You’re the only one holding this family together.”

So I held it together. Silently. Without credit or acknowledgment.

And now they’d stolen my apartment to fund my sister’s wedding, confident that I had no leverage, no power, no way to fight back.

They’d forgotten about the house.

I pulled up my bank records and found the automated payment I’d set up in 2015: $4,150 to First Community Bank of Georgia, withdrawing on the fifteenth of every month for ninety-six consecutive months.

I’d never told my parents I’d automated it. They’d just kept thanking me periodically for “helping out” without ever asking if I was still paying or if I’d stopped years ago.

The mortgage was in their names—Marcus and Diane Washington—but I was the one who’d been funding it for eight years. I’d saved their house. I’d protected their asset. I’d enabled them to maintain their lifestyle and their social standing.

And they’d never once considered that this gave me power.

I called First Community Bank the next morning and asked to speak to someone in their mortgage department about a payment issue.

The representative who answered was professionally polite. “How can I help you today?”

“My name is Imani Washington. I’ve been making payments on a mortgage held by Marcus and Diane Washington for the past eight years. I need to stop those payments and discuss options for what happens next.”

There was a pause while she pulled up the account. “I see the payment history here. These payments have been consistent—never late, always the full amount. May I ask why you’re discontinuing them?”

“Because the account holders sold my property without my permission and kept the proceeds. I’m no longer willing to fund their mortgage.”

“I understand. I’ll need to cancel the automatic payment authorization. However, I should inform you that discontinuing payments will result in default proceedings if the account holders don’t resume payment themselves. The loan is currently in good standing only because of your consistent payments.”

“I understand. How many missed payments before foreclosure proceedings begin?”

“Typically ninety days. After three missed payments, we initiate foreclosure.”

“Thank you. Please cancel the authorization immediately.”

Then I waited.

I moved out of the Buckhead apartment exactly twenty-nine days after my mother called to tell me it had been sold. I rented a modest one-bedroom in Virginia-Highland—nice enough, but nothing like what I’d lost. I packed up five years of my life into boxes and watched strangers take possession of the home I’d built.

Alicia’s wedding plans continued at full speed. My mother called periodically with updates I didn’t want to hear: the dress had been ordered, the flowers chosen, the menu finalized. She invited me to dress shopping and cake tastings with the casual assumption that I’d participate in celebrating my own robbery.

I declined everything politely, claiming work conflicts.

“Imani, you’re being petty,” my mother said after the third declined invitation. “I know you’re upset about the condo, but you need to move past that. This is your sister’s wedding. Family is more important than property.”

“Then maybe you should have considered that before you sold my property to fund her party,” I replied calmly, and ended the call.

Meanwhile, I tracked my parents’ mortgage status. The first payment they missed was in mid-April. The second was in May. By June, the bank sent them a notice of default.

I know this because my father called me, panicked, in early June.

“Imani, something’s wrong with the mortgage payments. The bank says we’re three months behind. Did something happen with your automatic payment?”

“I canceled it,” I said calmly.

“You… you canceled it? Why?”

“Because I’m no longer willing to pay for a house owned by people who stole half a million dollars from me. You want to keep your house, you can start paying your own mortgage.”

“Imani, that’s not fair. We’ve been counting on your help. You can’t just suddenly stop after all these years.”

“I can, actually. Just like you could suddenly sell my apartment after all those years. Turns out we’re both capable of making unilateral financial decisions that affect the other.”

“Please, baby girl. We can’t afford the mortgage payments. We’ll lose the house.”

“Then you’ll lose the house. Maybe Alicia can give you some of the wedding money back to make the payments.”

“That money is already spent! The deposits are non-refundable. The dress is ordered. Everything’s been paid for.”

“Sounds like a planning problem. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re both responsible adults who make hard decisions, right?”

I hung up while he was still trying to argue.

The foreclosure notice appeared on their front door on a Wednesday in late June. I know because my mother sent me a photo of it—a bright orange sticker on their charming blue door, visible from the street, announcing to all their neighbors that they’d defaulted on their mortgage.

The text that accompanied the photo just said: “How could you do this to us?”

I didn’t respond.

What I did instead was contact First Community Bank and make them an offer.

The conversation with the bank’s asset manager was straightforward.

“Ms. Washington, I understand you’re interested in purchasing the property at 4892 Meadowbrook Lane after foreclosure.”

“I am. I’d like to make a cash offer.”

“The property is valued at approximately six hundred seventy-five thousand dollars. The outstanding mortgage balance is three hundred ninety thousand dollars. We’d need at least the outstanding balance to satisfy the lien, though we’d prefer closer to market value.”

“I’ll offer four hundred fifty thousand, all cash, quick closing. That gives you a sixty-thousand-dollar profit over the outstanding balance without having to go through a full foreclosure process and auction. I can close within thirty days.”

There was a pause while she considered. “That’s a strong offer. I’ll need to present it to our committee, but I suspect they’ll accept. Given that you’re the one who’s been making the payments for years, this seems like a reasonable resolution.”

“I thought so too.”

The bank accepted my offer three days later.

The timing was perfect. My parents had exactly four hundred eighty thousand dollars from selling my apartment. After Alicia’s wedding expenses, they had about one hundred eighty thousand left. Not enough to save their house, even if they tried to buy it back.

Meanwhile, I had the four hundred fifty thousand I’d saved over the years from my design business—money I’d been planning to use to buy a new property eventually.

Instead, I used it to buy their house out from under them.

The foreclosure sale was finalized in early August, two weeks before Alicia’s wedding. I became the legal owner of the Alpharetta house where I’d grown up, the property my parents had assumed was their retirement security, the asset they’d planned to leave to their daughters someday.

I sent them a certified letter informing them they had forty-five days to vacate the property, along with a formal eviction notice if they failed to comply.

My mother called me sobbing. “Imani, you can’t be serious. This is our home. We’ve lived here for twenty-three years.”

“And I paid the mortgage for eight of those years,” I replied calmly. “Consider those eight years a loan that you’re now repaying by surrendering the property. You took my apartment to fund Alicia’s wedding. I’m taking your house to fund my future. Seems fair.”

“This is cruel. This is vindictive. We’re your parents.”

“And I was your daughter when you sold my apartment without even asking my permission. You taught me that family doesn’t protect you from financial consequences. I’m just applying the lesson.”

“Where are we supposed to go?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Alicia’s new husband can help. Or maybe you can use the rest of the wedding money to find an apartment. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re both responsible adults.”

She hung up on me. My father called twenty minutes later, trying a different approach.

“Imani, I know we hurt you. I know what we did was wrong. But taking our house? That’s going too far. We can’t recover from this.”

“Dad, I paid four hundred thousand dollars over eight years to keep you from losing that house. You used that generosity against me by feeling secure enough in your finances to steal my apartment. You created this situation, not me.”

“What do you want? What will it take for you to give us back the house?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing you can offer me that’s worth what you took. The house is mine now. You have forty-five days.”

“We’ll contest this. We’ll take you to court.”

“With what money? The wedding money’s gone. You have no assets. You have no leverage. You have nothing except forty-five days to pack.”

I hung up and blocked both their numbers.

Alicia’s wedding took place on August 22nd at the St. Regis Atlanta. I didn’t attend.

From what I heard through extended family, it was beautiful—exactly the fairy tale wedding my sister had always dreamed about. Three hundred guests, live band, elaborate florals, premium everything.

My parents showed up looking appropriately celebratory, never mentioning to any of the guests that they were about to lose their home or that their eldest daughter had bought it out from under them.

The photos on social media showed Alicia radiant in her designer gown, my parents smiling proudly, everyone pretending their lives weren’t imploding beneath the surface.

Two weeks later, I had the locks changed on the Alpharetta house.

Here’s what I did with my parents’ house:

I didn’t move into it. I didn’t rent it out. I didn’t flip it for profit.

I converted it into the headquarters for my design firm.

The first floor became my office and showroom—a space where I could meet with clients, display my portfolio, host design consultations. The second floor became studio space where I could work on drafting and mood boards and material selection.

I hung my business sign on the front door, right where the foreclosure notice had been.

“Imani Washington Design. By Appointment Only.”

Every client who came to my office would see the space I’d reclaimed from the people who’d tried to steal my future. Every meeting I held in that house was a reminder that I’d taken back what was mine.

I sent my parents one final letter, delivered to the apartment they’d moved into after leaving the house:

Dear Marcus and Diane,

I want you to understand something that I don’t think you’ve fully grasped: You didn’t just sell my apartment. You destroyed our relationship.

For eight years, I paid your mortgage without complaint or credit. I sacrificed my own financial security to protect yours, never asking for acknowledgment or repayment. I did it because I believed family meant supporting each other even when it was difficult.

Then you sold my home—the property I’d paid for, lived in, built my life around—without even asking my permission. You took four hundred eighty thousand dollars of my equity and gave it to my sister for a single day’s party. You laughed about it. You told me to be grateful to contribute to family.

So I did what you taught me: I made a hard decision that prioritized my needs over yours.

I bought your house because I could, because I’d earned that power through eight years of keeping you afloat, and because I wanted you to understand what it feels like to lose your home to someone you trusted.

The house is now my office. Every day, I work in the space where you raised me, and I remember what you taught me about family and sacrifice and responsibility.

You’re welcome to drive by anytime and see what I built from what you tried to take from me.

Don’t contact me again unless you’re ready to acknowledge what you did and offer actual restitution, which I know you’re not.

Your daughter,
Imani

That was eighteen months ago.

I’m thirty-one now, running a thriving design business out of the house I reclaimed, living in a new condo I bought without anyone’s name on the deed except my own. My client list has tripled since I opened the Alpharetta office. My revenue last year was six hundred thousand dollars.

I haven’t spoken to my parents since I sent that letter. They didn’t attempt to contact me, didn’t apologize, didn’t acknowledge any wrongdoing. According to mutual family members, they tell people I “had a breakdown” and “became vindictive over a misunderstanding about property.”

Alicia and I don’t speak either. She sent me one message after the wedding: “I hope you’re happy. You ruined Mom and Dad’s life over money.”

I didn’t respond, but the answer is yes. I am happy. Not because I ruined their lives, but because I stopped letting them ruin mine.

The truth is that reclaiming the house wasn’t really about revenge. It was about establishing the boundary I should have set years earlier: that my generosity wasn’t infinite, my sacrifice wasn’t mandatory, and my value as a daughter didn’t depend on how much I was willing to lose for people who’d never protected me the way I’d protected them.

I learned that family can be the people who raised you, or it can be the people who respect you. Sometimes those groups overlap. Sometimes they don’t.

And I learned that when someone steals from you and laughs about it, the most powerful response isn’t rage—it’s strategy.

They wanted to teach me a lesson about family sacrifice.

I taught them a lesson about leverage.

THE END