The November gloom settled over the courtyard of a council tower in Leeds as George, sixtyfour, quietly set the kettle on the gas hob. Outside, wet snow fell, melting into slush on the cracked tarmac that was instantly glazed with a thin coat of ice. Margaret, his wife, dozed in the next room. He waited for their daughter Eleanor; that evening they were to discuss their son James, whose habit of placing sports bets had once more spun out of control.
Eleanor arrived shortly after the central heating burst back on the engineers had finally turned the heat up. She set a bag of groceries down, sat opposite her father, and for a brief moment the air seemed to tighten with unspoken tension. When Margaret shuffled in, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, Eleanor went straight to the point: James had borrowed money from a mate and missed the repayment date. George clenched his hands; the previous winter the family had dipped into their modest savings to clear part of the arrears, and he knew he could not endure another repeat.
They moved to the lounge with the threadbare sofa. George spread a sheet of paper and began jotting down ideas: persuade James to register for a twelvemonth selfexclusion from gambling through the GamStop service, refer him to a counsellor, and arrange that no acquaintances should lend him money any longer. Eleanor argued that without the young mans own consent, any measures would be useless, and James was convinced that the big win was just around the corner. Margaret stared at the frosted courtyard outside, silent, already picturing how the interest on the loans would eat into their pension.
Rather than guess from a distance, they drove to Jamess flat that evening. The singleroom apartment smelled of dust and stale air the windows were shut tight to keep the warmth in. James met them with a strained smile and bragged that he had almost hit a massive payout, had it not been for a missed basket in the final seconds of a basketball match. As George listened to the familiar crackle of an old record, a weight settled in his chest: the gleam of gambling in his sons eyes showed that any semblance of control had vanished.
The road back was slick; Eleanor drove cautiously, the radio a faint hum. In the quiet, George replayed the conversation in his mind: debt, another bet, a deeper debt. We cannot chase his problems forever, he said as they stepped into the dark hallway of their own flat. At that moment a clear thought emerged: any help would come only if James himself limited his access to betting and began treatment.
The next morning Eleanor brought fresh news: James had taken a microloan, and the interest was already accruing. That evening the three of them finalized a list of conditions, rewriting it on the same sheet. Margaret ran the household budget there was little left to cover council tax and medication. Both parents feared not only the financial abyss but also that endless rescue would deprive James of feeling the consequences of his actions.
Then the climax came: a familiar acquaintance reported that James had lost his remaining cash at an online casino. Margaret sank into a chair, George shivered, but the tremor quickly turned to resolve. Either he submits a selfexclusion request and sees a specialist, or we stop funding him, he declared, and in that instant the family, as if breathing in unison, set a line they would not cross again.
The following dawn George awoke to the creak of old floorboards. Hoarfrost glittered like silver dust over the grass in the courtyard. Looking at the scribbled sheet, he dialled Jamess number and asked him to come over for a talk. The line stayed silent for a while, but when James heard the serious tone, he promised to drop by before nightfall. The rest of the day stretched on in nervous anticipation: the radiators hissed, Margaret boiled a pot of soup, Eleanor flipped through articles on gambling addiction and new legislation that spoke of mandatory rehabilitation.
James arrived in the evening, dark circles under his eyes, his phone never leaving his grasp. He began with a desperate, Ill give everything back, I just havent had luck lately, but the parents stood firm. George reminded him of the past debts, Eleanor read out three conditions clearly, and Margaret stated that debt collectors would speak only to the debtor himself. Anger gave way to despair in James, accusations fell in long pauses. Over an hour of halting dialogue passed before he finally exhaled, Ill think about it. The family did not press; the boundary was drawn, the choice now lay with him.
A week passed under the watchful winter sun and nighttime frosts. Debt collectors called once George politely referred them to his son. Later James called back himself, asking how to fill out the form on the government portal. After midnight a brief message arrived: Submitted the request. Its hard. Eleanor sent him the contact details of a therapist without pressing. Margaret caught herself each evening longing to rush in and save him, but she recalled the previous conversation and simply rested her hands on her knees.
By months end a little more light filtered through the windows, though the streets still lay under a thin sheet of ice. The family sensed a fragile respite: James no longer asked for money, spoke of looking for work, and occasionally shared how hard it was to stay away from bets. One night, the three of them sat in the sittingroom where warm air rose from the radiators, and George said, It seems easier to watch his fight than to be swept down with him. Margaret added that love was not an endless purse but a steady presence. Eleanor, smiling at her parents, said that equilibrium was still delicate, but it was there.
Late that night, after seeing Eleanor off to her car, George lingered by the lift shaft. The streetlamp cast a faint halo on the snowcovered landing, and a gentle wind carried the distant growl of winter. He thought of his son, his wife, his suddenly lighter breath, and realised they had not abandoned him, nor had they been swallowed by his addiction. Within that boundary lay their salvation.
