“They’d prefer,” I echoed.
“It’s just easier,” he said weakly. “They’re very particular about traditions.”
His voice shrank with every word.
I looked around the room—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.
Every inch of that house carried my fingerprints.
My sacrifice.
My love.
“Their way,” I said slowly. “And what way is that?”
He flinched.
“Dad, please don’t do this.”
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.”
Her tone hardened.
“This isn’t about race. It’s about class.”
Then she mentioned Maria.
That was the moment everything ended.
I hung up, hands steady.
Pulled out the folder I’d avoided for months.
Bank statements.
Mortgage transfers.
Time to stop bleeding.
Canceling the mortgage took less than five minutes.
“Effective immediately,” I said.
When I hung up, the silence felt clean.
That night, I burned five years of bank statements in my fireplace.
Poured myself a drink.
“Merry Christmas,” I told the empty room.
The next morning, Isabella called again.
She needed a favor.
“Pick up my parents from the airport,” she ordered. “Two o’clock.”
I smiled.
“Of course.”
At 2:15, I was home reading the paper.
At 3:30, my phone buzzed nonstop.
At 4:15, I turned it off.
