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.

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.

My phone buzzed. I ignored it.

Instead, I drove into the dark.