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 I was carrying my prints.
My sacrifice.
My love.
“Your way,” I said slowly. “And how is that?”
He shuddered.
“Dad, please don’t do this.”
Through the kitchen arch, I saw Isabella’s industrial-grade blender, the $2,000 mixer she swore she needed for her brief obsession with vacation baking.
“Then where should I go?” I asked softly.
Michael's face broke.
“Maybe Aunt Rosa. Or... we could do something else.”
