“Where will I spend Christmas, then?”

Michael’s face crumpled. “Maybe… I don’t know, maybe visit Aunt Rosa? Or we could do something the weekend after.”

The weekend after. As if Christmas was just another appointment that could be rescheduled.

I stood up. “I see.”

“Dad, wait…”

But I was already moving toward the door. My hand found the doorknob, solid and cold. “Son,” I said, without turning around. “Tell Isabella’s parents, ‘Feliz Navidad’.”

The December air hit my face like a slap. I sat in my truck, engine off, staring at the house I’d bought but would never belong in. My phone buzzed. Michael, no doubt, wanting to smooth things over. I didn’t answer.