He stared at the marble coffee table instead of my face. The same one I’d helped him choose when Isabella decided their old furniture looked “unsophisticated.”
“Isabella’s parents are coming,” he muttered. “And they’d… prefer if you weren’t here.”
My fingers went numb.
“They’d prefer,” I echoed.
“It’s just easier,” he said weakly. “They’re very particular about traditions.”
His voice shrank with every word.
I looked around the room—the silk curtains I paid for when Isabella complained about privacy, the hardwood floors financed through my second mortgage, the crown molding that pushed my credit card to its limit.
Every inch of that house carried my fingerprints.
My sacrifice.
My love.
“Their way,” I said slowly. “And what way is that?”
He flinched.
“Dad, please don’t do this.”
Through the kitchen archway, I spotted Isabella’s industrial-grade mixer—the $2,000 one she swore she needed for her brief holiday baking obsession.
“Then where should I go?” I asked softly.
Michael’s face cracked.
“Maybe Aunt Rosa’s. Or… we could do something another weekend.”
Another weekend.
Like Christmas was just an appointment.
I stood up, joints aching from years of carrying more than my share.
“I understand.”