“Dad…” He hesitated, unable to meet my eyes. His gaze was fixed on the marble coffee table. “Unfortunately, you won’t be welcome here for Christmas.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I blinked, certain I’d misheard. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I be welcome?”

“Isabella’s parents are coming,” he said, his voice shrinking with each word. “And they… they’d prefer if you weren’t here.”

My hands went cold. “They’d prefer?”

“It’s just… Dad, please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

I looked around the living room. I looked at the silk curtains I had paid for when Isabella complained about privacy. I looked at the hardwood floors that had come from my second mortgage. I looked at every inch of this house, a house that bore my fingerprints, my sacrifice, my love for my son.