Before we continue, take a moment to subscribe and tell us in the comments where you’re listening from.
“I could cook this year,” I said casually, sinking back into Michael’s leather sofa.
“My turkey. The one with sage stuffing your mother loved so much. Remember how she used to say it beat her grandmother’s recipe?”
The words lingered in the cozy air, blending with the sweet vanilla scent of Isabella’s designer candles.
Michael shifted beside me. The light from their towering Christmas tree flashed against his wedding ring.
His body language changed—subtle, but unmistakable. Like a man bracing himself.
“Dad,” he said quietly, “you won’t be able to spend Christmas here.”
The sentence landed like a punch to the chest.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
