My fingers went numb.
“They’d prefer,” I repeated.
“It’s just easier,” he said quickly. “They’re very particular about traditions.”
His voice shrank with every word.
I looked around the room slowly.
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 carefully. “And what way is that?”
He flinched.
“Dad, please don’t do this.”
Through the kitchen archway, I spotted Isabella’s industrial-grade mixer. Two thousand dollars. Bought during her brief holiday baking phase. Used twice. Still displayed like a trophy.
“Then where should I go?” I asked quietly.
Michael’s face cracked.
“Maybe Aunt Rosa’s,” he said. “Or… we could do something another weekend.”
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