The words hit me like a physical blow. I blinked, certain I had misunderstood. “What do you mean? Why shouldn’t I be welcome?”
Michael didn’t meet my gaze; his gaze was fixed on the marble table, the same one I had helped him choose last spring when Isabella decided her old furniture wasn’t sophisticated enough.
“Isabella’s parents are coming and… they’d rather you weren’t here.”
My hand was cold. “I would,” I repeated. “It’s easier this way, Dad. You know their family has traditions. They have their own way of doing things.”
With each word, his voice trailed off, as if shrinking into itself. I looked around the room, at the silk curtains I’d paid for when Isabella complained about my privacy. At the hardwood floors left over from my second mortgage. At the moldings that had drained my credit card. Every square inch of the house was marked with my fingerprints, my sacrifice, my love for my son.
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