I looked around the room—the silk curtains I’d paid for when Isabella complained about a lack of privacy, the hardwood floors I’d financed with my second mortgage, the stucco moldings that maxed out my credit card.
Every inch of this house bore my mark.
My sacrifice.
My love.
“Her way,” I said slowly. “And what kind is that?”
He flinched.
“Dad, please don’t do this.”
Through the kitchen archway, I spotted Isabella’s professional blender—the $2,000 appliance she’d desperately needed after her brief Christmas baking spree.
“Where am I supposed to go then?” I asked quietly.
Michael’s expression darkened. “Maybe at Aunt Rosa’s. Or… we could do something another weekend.”
Another weekend.
As if Christmas were just an appointment.
I stood up, my joints aching from years of carrying more than my own burden.
“I understand.”
“Dad—wait—”
But I was already on my way out, past framed family photos where my presence faded frame by frame, past closets full of Isabella’s coats.
At the door, my hand grasped the cold doorknob.
“Please give Isabella’s parents a message from me,” I said.
“What?”
“Feliz Navidad.”
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