Through the kitchen archway, I spotted Isabella’s industrial-grade mixer—the $2,000 one she swore she needed for her brief holiday baking obsession.

“Then where should I go?” I asked softly.

Michael’s face cracked.
“Maybe Aunt Rosa’s. Or… we could do something another weekend.”

Another weekend.

Like Christmas was just an appointment.

I stood up, joints aching from years of carrying more than my share.

“I understand.”

“Dad—wait—”

But I was already walking out, past framed family photos where my presence faded frame by frame, past closets stuffed with Isabella’s coats.

At the door, my hand wrapped around the cold knob.

“Tell Isabella’s parents something for me,” I said.

“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, engine silent, watching Christmas lights glow in windows where I would never be welcome.

My phone buzzed. I ignored it.

Instead, I drove into the dark.

The streets of South Hills passed by, heavy with 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 while his kids pressed their faces to the glass.

Once, that had been Michael and me.

Before Isabella.
Before I became a walking wallet with inconvenient feelings.

The numbers replayed in my head.

$2,800 every month.
Five years.

$140,000.

More than Maria and I ever saved for retirement.

Gone. Continue reading…