Fifth Street—where I refinanced my house to fund their down payment.
Lincoln Street—where I took a second mortgage after Michael lost his job.
“Just temporary,” he’d said.
Isabella had nodded, her $700 purse over her shoulder.
Temporary became permanent.
I pulled into my driveway, cracked concrete mocking me.
Inside, the house felt emptier than ever.
My phone rang.
Isabella.
I answered on the fourth ring.
“Dennis,” she said sweetly. “I heard there was a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” I said evenly.
“My parents are traditional,” she continued. “They expect a certain… atmosphere.”
“And what atmosphere would that be?”
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 swallowed insults boiled up.
“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 now your parents are around,” I said. “And you don’t want the Mexican peasant embarrassing you.”
Her tone hardened.
“This isn’t about race. It’s about class.”
Then she mentioned Maria.
That was the moment everything ended.