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.

“Dad—wait—”

But I was already walking out, past framed family photos where my presence faded frame by frame, past closets stuffed with Isabella’s coats.

At the door, my hand wrapped around the cold knob.

“Tell Isabella’s parents something for me,” I said.

“What?”

“Feliz Navidad.”

The December air slapped my face as I stepped outside.

Behind me, Michael called my name once—then the door shut.

Final.

I sat in my truck, engine silent, watching Christmas lights glow in windows where I would never be welcome.