Fifth Street—where I refinanced my house to pay her down payment.

Lincoln Street—where I took out a second mortgage after Michael lost his job.

“Just temporary,” he’d said.

Isabella had nodded, her $700 handbag slung over her shoulder.

The temporary became permanent.

I pulled into my driveway, the cracked concrete seeming to mock me.

Inside, the house felt emptier than ever.

My phone rang.

Isabella.

I answered on the fourth ring.

“Dennis,” she said kindly. “I heard there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?” I said calmly.

“My parents are traditional,” she continued. “They expect a certain… atmosphere.”

“And what kind of atmosphere would that create?”

I heard shopping bags rustling.

“Well… they’re not used to your cooking. The spices. The music. They’re educated people. They expect intellectual conversation.”

Eight years of suppressed resentment boiled over.

“The food you ate every Sunday when money was tight?” I asked calmly.

“The tamales you said reminded you of your grandmother?”

“That was different.”

“Because your parents are here now,” I said. “And you don’t want some Mexican peasant embarrassing you.”

Her tone sharpened.

“This isn’t about race. It’s about class.”

Then she mentioned Maria.

That was the moment it all came crashing down.

I hung up, my hands still.

I pulled out the folder I’d been avoiding for months.

Bank statements.

Mortgage transfers.

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