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.

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.”

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