Michael shifted beside me.
I noticed it immediately.
The tight shoulders. The way his eyes avoided mine. A man bracing for impact.
“Dad,” he said quietly, “you won’t be able to spend Christmas here.”
The sentence didn’t register at first.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “What?”
He stared at the marble coffee table instead of my face. The same table I helped him choose years earlier, 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 repeated.
“It’s just easier,” he said quickly. “They’re very particular about traditions.”
His voice shrank with every word.
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.
