Earlier that afternoon, we had been sitting in the living room, sunlight slanting across the polished floors, when I made what I thought was a harmless offer. “I could cook this year,” I said. “My turkey. The one with sage stuffing your mother loved.” I hadn’t said her name in weeks, careful not to burden them with memories they preferred neatly packaged. The change in the room was immediate and unmistakable. Michael’s shoulders tightened. His gaze slid away from mine and settled on a decorative bowl that had never held anything real. When he finally spoke, his voice carried that careful gentleness people use when they believe kindness will make cruelty acceptable.

“Dad,” he said, “you won’t be able to spend Christmas here. Isabella’s parents are coming. They’d prefer if you weren’t.” The words hovered between us, clean and devastating. I looked around the house—silk curtains, designer furniture, carefully curated details—and saw not luxury, but history. “Then where should I go?” I asked, not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I wanted to hear what he thought my place was. He suggested other relatives, another weekend, another time, as if Christmas were flexible, as if belonging were something that could be rescheduled without consequence.