I smiled when my son told me I wasn’t welcome for Christmas, got in my car, and drove home. Two days later, my phone showed eighteen missed calls. That’s when I knew something had gone terribly wrong.

“They’d prefer,” I echoed.

“It’s just easier,” he said weakly. “They’re very particular about traditions.”

His voice shrank with every word.
I looked around the room—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 slowly. “And what way is that?”