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.

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.

I pressed the gas when the light turned green.

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.