“Feliz Navidad.”
The December air slapped my face as I stepped outside.
Then the door shut.
Final.
I sat in my truck with the engine off, watching Christmas lights glow in windows where I would never again be welcome.
My phone buzzed.
I ignored it.
Instead, I drove.
The streets of South Hills passed by slowly, heavy with memories. Memories of the man I used to be. The father who believed family came first, no matter the cost.
That man had been a fool.
Once, that had been Michael and me.
Before Isabella.
Before I became a walking wallet with inconvenient feelings.
Numbers began replaying in my head.
$2,800 every month.
Five years.
$140,000.
More than Maria and I ever saved for retirement.
Gone.
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 hanging from her shoulder.
Temporary became permanent.
I pulled into my driveway just after dusk.
The cracked concrete greeted me like an accusation.
Inside, the house felt colder than usual. Quieter. Maria’s photo sat on the mantel, her gentle smile frozen in time.
“I tried,” I said out loud.
The phone rang.
Isabella.
I let it ring twice before answering.
“Dennis,” she said sweetly. “I heard there was a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” I repeated evenly.
“My parents are traditional,” she continued. “They expect a certain… atmosphere.”
“And what atmosphere would that be?”
I heard shopping bags rustling in the background.
“Well,” she said lightly, “they’re not used to your cooking. The spices. The music. They’re educated people. They expect intellectual conversation.”
Eight years of swallowed insults rose up like bile.
“The food you ate every Sunday when money was tight?” I asked calmly.Continue reading…
