“They’d prefer,” I repeated.
“It’s just easier,” he said quickly. “They’re very particular about traditions.”
I looked around the room slowly.
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.
Every inch of that house carried my fingerprints.
My sacrifice.
My love.
“Their way,” I said carefully. “And what way is that?”
He flinched.
“Dad, please don’t do this.”
Through the kitchen archway, I spotted Isabella’s industrial-grade mixer. Two thousand dollars. Bought during her brief holiday baking phase. Used twice. Still displayed like a trophy.
Michael’s face cracked.
“Maybe Aunt Rosa’s,” he said. “Or… we could do something another weekend.”
Another weekend.
Like Christmas was just a scheduling conflict.
I stood up slowly, joints aching from years of carrying more than my share.
“I understand.”
“Dad—wait—”
Past framed family photos where my presence faded frame by frame.
Past closets overflowing with Isabella’s coats.
Past a home that no longer felt like one.
My hand wrapped around the cold doorknob.
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