I smiled when my son told me I wasn’t welcome for Christmas, got in my car, and drove home. Two days later, my phone showed eighteen missed calls. That’s when I knew something had gone terribly wrong.

I met her gaze evenly.

“You told my son I didn’t belong in his home,” I said. “On Christmas.”

Michael ran a hand through his hair.

“We didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “It just got complicated.”

“No,” I said. “It got honest.”

They stood there, waiting for me to soften.

I didn’t.

“This arrangement,” I continued, “was built on respect. Once that disappeared, so did my obligation.”

Isabella scoffed. “So you’re punishing us?”

“No,” I said. “I’m stopping.”

That’s when she tried a different angle.

“You don’t understand how this looks,” she said. “My parents are furious. People are talking.”

“People always talk,” I replied. “Especially when the money stops.”

Michael’s shoulders sagged.

“What do you want?” he asked quietly.