“Dad, please don’t do this.”
Through the kitchen archway, I spotted Isabella’s industrial-grade mixer. Two thousand dollars. Bought during her brief holiday baking phase. Used twice. Still displayed like a trophy.
“Then where should I go?” I asked quietly.
Michael’s face cracked.
“Maybe Aunt Rosa’s,” he said. “Or… we could do something another weekend.”
Another weekend.
Like Christmas was just a scheduling conflict.
I stood up slowly, joints aching from years of carrying more than my share.
“I understand.”
“Dad—wait—”
But I was already walking toward the door.
Past framed family photos where my presence faded frame by frame.
Past closets overflowing with Isabella’s coats.
Past a home that no longer felt like one.
My hand wrapped around the cold doorknob.
“Tell Isabella’s parents something for me,” I said.
Michael looked up. “What?”
“Feliz Navidad.”
The December air slapped my face as I stepped outside.
Behind me, Michael called my name once.
Then the door shut.
Final.
I sat in my truck with the engine off, watching Christmas lights glow in windows where I would never again be welcome.
My phone buzzed.
I ignored it.
Instead, I drove.
The streets of South Hills passed by slowly, heavy with memories. Memories of the man I used to be. The father who believed family came 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. His kids pressed their faces against the glass, laughing, fogging it with their breath.
Once, that had been Michael and me.
Before Isabella.
Before I became a walking wallet with inconvenient feelings.
Numbers began replaying in my head.
$2,800 every month.
Five years.
$140,000.
More than Maria and I ever saved for retirement.
Gone.
