“I could make my famous turkey this year,” I said, settling deeper into Michael’s leather couch. “The one with the sage stuffing your mother used to love. Remember how she’d always say it was better than her grandmother’s?”
The words hung in the warm air between us, mixing with the scent of Isabella’s expensive vanilla candles.
Michael shifted beside me, his wedding ring catching the light from their 12-foot Christmas tree. Something in his posture changed, shoulders pulling inward as if bracing for impact. “Dad…” He hesitated, unable to meet my eyes.
His gaze was fixed on the marble coffee table. “Unfortunately, you won’t be welcome here for Christmas.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I blinked, certain I’d misheard.
“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I be welcome?”
“Isabella’s parents are coming,” he said, his voice shrinking with each word. “And they… they’d prefer if you weren’t here.”
My hands went cold.
“They’d prefer?”
“It’s just… Dad, please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
I looked around the living room. I looked at the silk curtains I had paid for when Isabella complained about privacy. I looked at the hardwood floors that had come from my second mortgage.
I looked at every inch of this house, a house that bore my fingerprints, my sacrifice, my love for my son. “Where will I spend Christmas, then?”
Michael’s face crumpled. “Maybe… I don’t know, maybe visit Aunt Rosa?
Or we could do something the weekend after.”
The weekend after. As if Christmas was just another appointment that could be rescheduled. I stood up.
“I see.”
“Dad, wait…”
But I was already moving toward the door. My hand found the doorknob, solid and cold. “Son,” I said, without turning around.
“Tell Isabella’s parents, ‘Feliz Navidad’.”
The December air hit my face like a slap. I sat in my truck, engine off, staring at the house I’d bought but would never belong in. My phone buzzed.
Michael, no doubt, wanting to smooth things over. I didn’t answer. I drove into the darkness.
The truck’s heater hummed against the cold. Every street corner in South Hills held memories of the man I used to be—the one who believed family meant everything. That man was a fool.
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