The December air whipped against my face as I stepped outside.

Behind me, Michael called my name once—then the door closed.

The finale.

I sat in my truck, the engine silent, watching the Christmas lights twinkle in windows where I would never be welcome.

My phone vibrated. I ignored it.

Instead, I drove out into the darkness.

The streets of South Hills rolled by, heavy with memories of the man I once was—the father who put family first, no matter the cost.

That man had been a fool.

At a red light, I watched a young father loading gifts into his SUV while his children pressed their faces against the window.

That was Michael and me.

Before Isabella.
Before I became a walking wallet filled with unpleasant feelings.

The numbers kept replaying in my mind.

$2,800 a month.

Five years.

$140,000.

More than Maria and I ever saved for retirement.

Gone.

I accelerated when the light turned green.

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