“I could make my famous turkey this year,” I said, settling deeper into Michael’s leather couch. “The one with the sage stuffing your mother used to love. Remember how she’d always say it was better than her grandmother’s?”
The words hung in the warm air between us, mixing with the scent of Isabella’s expensive vanilla candles. Michael shifted beside me, his wedding ring catching the light from their 12-foot Christmas tree. Something in his posture changed, shoulders pulling inward as if bracing for impact.
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