The evening chill settled over the courtyard of our council flat as I quietly set the kettle on the gas hob. Outside, wet snow was turning the cracked pavement into shallow pools that instantly gathered a thin sheet of ice. Helen, my wife, was dozing in the next room. I was waiting for our daughter Emily; today we had to discuss Daniel, our son, whose habit of betting on sports had once again spiralled out of control.
Emily arrived shortly after the heating engineers turned the radiators up, a soft clank echoing through the flat. She placed a bag of groceries on the kitchen table, sat opposite me, and for a moment the tension in the room seemed to snap like a rubber band. When Helen, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, joined us, Emily got straight to the point: Daniel had borrowed money from a mate and missed the repayment deadline. My fists tightened; just last winter wed dip into our modest savings to cover part of his debts, and I wasnt willing to repeat that.
We moved to the living room, where the sofa was threadbare from years of use. I spread a sheet of paper and began jotting down possible actions: persuade Daniel to register for a yearlong selfexclusion with the Gambling Commission, refer him to a counsellor, and make sure his friends stopped lending him cash. Emily argued that without his voluntary consent none of it would work, and Daniel was convinced that just one big win was around the corner. Helen stared out at the icy courtyard, silent, already picturing how the mounting interest on his loans would eat into our pension.
Rather than guess from afar, we drove to his flat that evening. His oneroom flat smelled of dust and stale air the windows were shut tight, to keep the heat in, he said. Daniel greeted us with a strained smile and bragged that he had almost hit a massive payout, if only a basketball player hadnt missed a lastsecond shot. Listening to his familiar story, a weight settled in my chest: the gleam in his eyes told me he had lost any grip on control.
The road back was slick; Emily drove cautiously, the radio barely audible over the hum of the engine. In the quiet, I replayed the conversation in my head: debt, another bet, an even larger debt. We cant chase his problems forever, I said as we stepped into the dark hallway of our flat. Then a clear thought emerged: any help would come only if Daniel himself limited his access to betting and started treatment.
The next morning Emily brought fresh news: Daniel had taken a microloan, and the interest was already dripping away. That evening the three of us nailed down a list of conditions on the same piece of paper. Helen checked the family budget there wasnt much left after paying the council tax, utilities and medication. It wasnt just the financial abyss that worried us, but the fact that endless rescuing robbed Daniel of feeling the consequences of his actions.
The climax arrived when a familiar acquaintance told us Daniel had lost his last few pounds at an online casino. Helen sank onto a chair, I felt a tremor, but the anxiety quickly turned to resolve. Either he applies for selfexclusion and sees a specialist, or we stop funding him, I declared, and in that moment the family collectively set a boundary he could no longer cross.
The following morning I woke the flat with the creak of the floorboards. Frost lay like silver dust on the grass in the courtyard. Looking at the scribbled list, I dialled Daniels number and asked him to come over for a chat. The line rang in silence for a while, but Daniel, hearing the seriousness in my voice, promised to drop by before nightfall. The day stretched out in nervous anticipation: the radiators hissed, Helen boiled soup, Emily flipped through articles on gambling addiction and new legislation about compulsory rehabilitation.
Daniel arrived at dusk, dark circles under his eyes, his phone glued to his hand. At first he blurted, Ill give everything back, just my lucks off, but we didnt back down. I reminded him of the past debts, Emily read out the three conditions clearly, and Helen said firmly that any collector would deal only with the debtor himself. Anger gave way to desperation, accusations to long pauses. After more than an hour of halting dialogue, he finally exhaled, Ill think about it. We didnt press further; the line was drawn, the choice his.
A week passed under the watchful winter sun and nighttime frosts. Collectors called once I politely sent them straight to Daniel. He later rang me himself, asking how to fill out the selfexclusion form online. After midnight a short text arrived: Applied. Its hard. Emily forwarded him a counsellors contact, without pressure. Helen caught herself each evening wanting to jump in and rescue him, but she remembered our talk and kept her hands folded.
By months end a little more light filtered through the windows, even though the streets were still glazed with thin ice. The family felt a fragile reprieve: Daniel wasnt asking for money, he talked about looking for a new job and occasionally shared how tough it was to stay away from betting. One night, sitting together in the living room where the radiators gave off dry warmth, I said, It turns out its easier to watch his battle than to ruin ourselves alongside him. Helen added that love isnt an endless wallet, but simply being there. Emily smiled at us both, saying the balance was still shaky, but it was there.
Late that night, as I saw Emily off to her car, I lingered by the entrance. The streetlamp cast a faint circle on the snowy step, and a distant wind carried the low growl of winter. I thought of Daniel, of Helen, of my suddenly lighter breath and realised we hadnt abandoned him, nor had we been swallowed by his addiction. Within that boundary lay our salvation.
