“My way,” I said slowly. “And which one is it, Michael?” He shivered. “Dad, don’t make it harder than it has to be.”
Through the kitchen archway, I saw Isabella’s new KitchenAid stand mixer—the professional one she said she would use during the Christmas baking season, which lasted exactly three weeks. There was two thousand dollars lying there, out of my pocket, probably used twice since October.
“So where should I spend Christmas?” the question came more softly than he wanted. Michael’s face darkened. “Maybe, I don’t know, you could visit Aunt Rose. Or we could do something next weekend.”
Next weekend. As if Christmas were just another gathering postponed for convenience. I stood up, my knees protesting after carrying this burden alone for eight years.
“I understand.” “Dad, wait…”
But I was already heading for the door, past the family photos, my face getting smaller and smaller with each one, past the coat closet that held Isabella’s countless coats. My hand slammed on the doorknob, hard and cold under my palm.
“Son,” I said without turning around. “Say something to Isabella’s parents for me.” “What?” he asked, his voice tense. “Merry Christmas.”
The December air hit me like a blow as I walked to my truck. Behind me, I heard Michael call my name once, then the soft click of the door. It was over. Completely.
For a moment, I sat behind the wheel with the engine off, looking at the twinkling Christmas lights in the windows of houses that would never let me in. My phone vibrated—probably Michael, trying to smooth things over with empty promises and guilt. I didn’t answer. Instead, I turned the key and drove off into the darkness, leaving behind the warm glow of the house I had bought but would never fit into.
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