My daughter keeps calling. She is drunk. She screams. She calls me a crook and says I make her life miserable. I turn off the phone. Jim is constantly beating her up. It is my fault. He broke her leg the other day. She lied to the police that she fell in her bedroom. He threatens to burn down my house if I don't pay off the debt immediately.

I have never argued. All the mess is mine and I will clean it up. I just need time. Everyone is pushing me. Letters from the collection agency aggravate the situation. Every envelope that comes in mail makes Jim furious. He yells at her, she yells at me.

Twenty five thousand is big money. I need to find a way out. I dial the number shown on the letter. The officer is not available. My messages may be too disturbing for him. I speak politely but I say what I think.

He has a big salary, maybe more than one hundred thousand a year. He has all benefits. If his wife also works for the agency, they have two big incomes and two sets of benefits. They live their comfortable life and have no idea what it is like down here. He has never seen a fridge with a half full bottle of ketchup, a couple of potatoes, an onion and some bread in it. He cannot imagine that many families live without milk, cheese, sausages and other high quality fancy stuff. He may be wondering why people walk around with their front teeth missing. He thinks it's gross. It never occurs to him that they just don't have money to pay for dentist. All he sees is documents on his desk. Behind every paper there is someone's fate, but he doesn't care.

All he does is follow instructions and send letters with court orders, lien notifications, warnings and demands. I will never forget his name – A. Bailey. His job is loathsome. I don't think a person with normal mentality can work in collection business. I cannot name a more disgusting job. Even parking enforcement is better.

I tried everything. I asked my friends to help me. None of them did. I know they could. Tom mentioned that he was paying off his mortgage by spring. Lionel is vacationing in Florida every other month. Liz is buying a farm at the seaside. If they were in need, I would give them whatever I had. But it's OK, I am not judging.

Mason owes me. I gave him cash a year ago and I cannot get my money back. He knows I will not go to court. I could, but I won't. His money is not enough, anyway.

This is so much stress. Bad pain in the chest makes it hard to breath. I take my mom's pills.

I went to banks. I asked the jeweller across the road if he could buy my rings. The rings have been with me for ages. The money he offered is ridiculous. I wanted to sell my car and some of the household stuff, but I cannot raise that much. I cannot rob and steal. I am trapped.

I wrote a letter to Ellen DeGeneres. I know she helps people. I was not asking for money as a gift. I sent her my manuscript and did the maths. If my book sells for $10, we need to sell 2,500 books to cover the debt. If we print 10,000 books, we get $100,000. $100,000 minus $25,000 (I pay off the debt) minus publishing expenses makes at least $70,000 profit. Ellen can use 70 thousands to help others. She can go for a holiday with Portia. She is a good person and a funny one too. Unfortunately, the chance that she picks my letter out of hundreds is so narrow.

It is so exhausting to be me. I suck. Actually, I am done. I put the chair under the chandelier and climb on it. I can fix the rope and push the chair away. I just need to kick it towards the window: more space there. It will work. I need to find a rope. My silk scarf is the best. I get off the chair, move it aside and open the wardrobe. Chest pain is unbearable. I fall on the floor and die.

The phone rings. I cannot pick it up but I can hear the message. It is from the office of Ellen DeGeneres. They would like me to be on the show. Oh, my God! She is so cool! My daughter can go instead of me. After all, life is not as bad as it may seem.

Today's mail is in the hall. My husband opens the envelopes. My line of credit application has been approved. Why didn't I get this letter yesterday? He puts the letters on the table, goes to the bedroom and finds me.

The funeral is beautiful. Pink roses. Friends. Speeches. So many tears shed. So much love shown. Tom, Lionel and Liz cry. I know that they are happy. They did the right thing: now that I am dead they will not have to worry about getting their money back. On the other hand, if they had helped, I could still be alive.

During the reception Mason finds his promissory letter in my desk drawer. He destroys it into tiny pieces and puts into the garbage bin in the kitchen. He pretends to be upset, but I know he is totally triumphant.

No one has ever suspected that before the heart attack I tried the chair and was looking for my silk scarf in the wardrobe. So, the insurance company will pay too.