His body language shifted—subtly, but unmistakably. Like that of a man bracing himself.
“Dad,” he said quietly, “you won’t be able to spend Christmas here.”
The sentence hit me like a punch to the gut.
I blinked.
“Excuse me?”
Instead of looking at me, he stared at the marble coffee table. The very one I had chosen for him when Isabella thought her old furniture looked “outdated.”
“Isabella’s parents are coming,” he murmured. “And they would… prefer it if you weren’t here.”
My fingers went numb.
“That’s what they would prefer,” I repeated.
“It’s just easier,” he said quietly. “They place a lot of value on tradition.”
His voice grew softer with each word.
Continue reading on the next page
