Michael shifted beside me. The light from their towering Christmas tree flashed against his wedding ring.
His body language changed—subtle, but unmistakable. Like a man bracing himself.
“Dad,” he said quietly, “you won’t be able to spend Christmas here.”
The sentence landed like a punch to the chest ca.
I blinked.
“I’m sorry—what?”
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.
