I smiled, got in my car, and made a single call. By the new year, I had already paid off his mortgage. And that was just the beginning of my plan. Justice had to be restored, and arrogance punished. You won’t believe what I did next.
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“I could make my famous turkey this year,” I said, settling more comfortably into Michael’s leather couch. “The one with the sage stuffing your mother loved. Remember how she always said it was better than her grandmother’s?”
The words hung in the warm air between us, mingling with the scent of Isabella’s expensive vanilla candles. Michael shifted beside me, his wedding ring catching the light from his nearly 13-foot Christmas tree. Something about his posture changed, his shoulders slumping as if bracing for an impact.
“Dad,” he said quietly, “unfortunately, you won’t be welcome here for Christmas.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I blinked, sure I’d misheard. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I be welcome?”
Michael couldn’t meet my gaze; his eyes were fixed on the marble coffee table, the one I’d helped him choose last spring when Isabella decided her old furniture wasn’t sophisticated enough.
“Isabella’s parents are coming, and they… they’d prefer if you weren’t here.”
My hands went cold. “Would prefer,” I repeated. “It’s easier this way, Dad. You know how her family is with traditions. They have their own way of doing things.”
His voice grew smaller with each word, as if he were shrinking inside himself. I glanced around the room at the silk curtains I’d paid for when Isabella complained about privacy. At the hardwood floors that had come from my second mortgage. To the crown molding that had maxed out my credit card. Every inch of this house bore my fingerprints, my sacrifice, my love for my son.
“His own way,” I said slowly. “And what way is that, Michael?” He shuddered. “Dad, please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Through the archway in the kitchen, I could see Isabella’s new KitchenAid mixer—the professional-grade one she insisted I needed for her Christmas baking phase that lasted exactly three weeks. Two thousand dollars of my money sitting there, probably used twice since October.
“Where will I spend Christmas, then?” The question came out quieter than I intended. Michael’s face fell. “Maybe you could, I don’t know, maybe visit Aunt Rosa. Or we could do something the following weekend.”
The following weekend. As if Christmas were just another appointment that could be rescheduled for convenience. I stood up, my knees protesting after eight years of carrying this burden alone.
“I see.” “Dad, wait…”
But I was already heading for the door, past the family photos where my face grew smaller and more distant in each frame, past the coat closet that held Isabella’s countless jackets. My hand found the doorknob, solid and cold under my palm.
“Son,” I said without turning around. “Say something to Isabella’s parents for me.” “What?” he asked, his voice tense. “Merry Christmas.”
The December air hit me like a slap as I walked to my truck. Behind me, I heard Michael call my name once, and then the soft click of the door closing. Final. Absolute.
I sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, the engine off, watching the Christmas lights twinkle in the windows of houses where I would never be welcome. My phone vibrated—probably Michael, trying to smooth things over with empty promises and guilt. I didn’t answer. Instead, I turned the key and drove into the darkness, leaving behind the warm glow of the house I’d bought but would never truly belong in.
The heater whirred against the December chill as I navigated the familiar streets toward home. South Hills sprawled around me, every corner of the neighborhood holding memories of the man I used to be: the one who believed family was everything, the one who would give his last dollar to see his son smile. That man was a fool.
I stopped at the red light at 29th and Grand, watching a young father load Christmas presents into his truck, his children pressing their faces against the window, fogging it with excitement. Once upon a time, that had been Michael and me. Before Isabella. Before I became nothing more than a walking ATM with inconvenient emotions.
The numbers started rolling through my head like a broken slot machine. $2,800 every month for five years. My calculator had given up trying to make sense of it last spring when I finally added it all up.
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