My hand wrapped around the cold doorknob.
“Tell Isabella’s parents something for me,” I said.
Michael looked up. “What?”
“Feliz Navidad.”
The December air slapped my face as I stepped outside.
Behind me, Michael called my name once.
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.
At a red light, I watched a young father loading gifts into his SUV. His kids pressed their faces against the glass, laughing, fogging it with their breath.
