The Christmas I Was Told I Didn’t Belong

is that?”

He flinched.

“Dad, please don’t do this.”

Through the kitchen archway, I spotted Isabella’s industrial-grade mixer. Two thousand dollars. Bought during her brief holiday baking phase. Used twice. Still displayed like a trophy.

“Then where should I go?” I asked quietly.

Michael’s face cracked.

“Maybe Aunt Rosa’s,” he said. “Or… we could do something continue reading …