Emerson Solomon
When my son told me I wasn’t welcome for Christmas, I didn’t argue. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t ask why. I smiled, picked up my coat, and drove home. At the time, he thought that smile meant acceptance. It didn’t. It meant something inside me had finally gone quiet.
It started earlier that afternoon. “I could cook this year,” I said casually. “My turkey. The one with sage stuffing your mother loved.” Michael’s shoulders tightened, his eyes avoided mine. “Dad,” he said quietly, “you won’t be able to spend Christmas here. Isabella’s parents are coming. They’d prefer if you weren’t here.”
I looked around the house—the silk curtains, hardwood floors, crown molding—all paid for with my sacrifices. Every inch carried my fingerprints, my love. “Then where should I go?” I asked quietly. “Maybe Aunt Rosa’s,” he suggested, or another weekend. Another weekend, as if Christmas were just a scheduling conflict.
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