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 18 missed calls.
$2,800 on the fifteenth of every month, vanishing from my account into theirs.
A paper trail of my own stupidity.
I pulled out my calculator and started adding.
The first year: $33,600.
The second year: another $33,600.
By the third year, I’d stopped buying myself new clothes.
The fourth year, I’d started shopping at discount grocery stores.
This year—the fifth year—I’d been eating peanut butter sandwiches for lunch to make ends meet.
$143,400.
Not counting the down payment.
Not counting the times I’d covered their utilities when Isabella’s shopping addiction got out of hand.
Not counting the new roof, the landscaping, the furniture that was “essential” for their lifestyle.
I sat back in my chair, looking at the numbers until they blurred.
Maria’s life insurance money. My retirement savings. The college fund we’d started for grandchildren I’d apparently never be allowed to see.
All of it gone.
Poured into a house where I wasn’t welcome for Christmas dinner.
I reached for my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found the number for my bank.
The automated system offered me options in English and Spanish.
How thoughtful.
How accommodating to people like me.
“Customer service, this is Jennifer. How can I help you today?”
“I need to cancel an automatic transfer,” I said, my voice steadier than it had been in years.
“Certainly, sir. I’ll need your account number and some verification information.”
I rattled off the numbers and listened to her type in the background—professional, efficient, no judgment about why a sixty‑two‑year‑old man was canceling payments to what was probably his son’s mortgage.
“I see the transfer you’re referring to, Mr. Flores. $2,800 monthly to Wells Fargo. Account ending in 7423. How long have you been making this transfer?”
“Five years.”
The words tasted bitter.
“And you want to cancel it effective immediately?”
I looked around my kitchen at the outdated appliances I couldn’t afford to replace, at the walls that needed painting, at the windows that leaked cold air because I’d spent my home improvement money on someone else’s castle.
“Effective immediately,” I confirmed.
“Done. The transfer has been canceled. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
“No,” I said, surprising myself with how good the word felt. “No, that’s everything.”
I hung up and sat in the sudden quiet of my house.
Outside, December darkness was settling over Spokane, Christmas lights twinkling in windows where families gathered without conditions, without judgment, without the need to hide who they were.
For the first time in five years, next month’s budget would balance.
For the first time since Maria died, I could afford to fix my porch light, buy decent groceries, maybe even take a vacation.
I gathered up the bank statements, the mortgage papers, all the evidence of my generosity.
Then I walked to my fireplace, struck a match, and watched five years of martyrdom turn to ash.
The fire felt warm on my face, warmer than I’d felt in years.
My phone buzzed with a text message—probably Michael wanting to apologize, or Isabella needing money for something essential, like new throw pillows.
I didn’t check it.
Instead, I poured myself a glass of the good whiskey, the bottle I’d been saving for a special occasion that never seemed to come.
Tonight felt special enough.
I raised my glass to the empty room, to Maria’s photo on the mantle, to the man I used to be and the man I was becoming.
“Merry Christmas to me,” I said, and meant it.
Part Five: Isabella’s Provocation
The next morning arrived crisp and clear, December sunlight streaming through my kitchen windows as I nursed my second cup of coffee.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t calculating how much money would disappear from my account in three days.
The freedom tasted better than the Colombian blend I’d finally allowed myself to buy.
My phone rang at exactly 10:47 a.m.
Isabella’s name flashed on the screen like a warning label.
“Dennis,” she said, her voice carrying that familiar tone of barely concealed impatience. “I need you to pick up my parents from Spokane airport. Their flight from Portland arrives at two.”
I set down my mug carefully, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling.
“Isabella, did you forget about our conversation yesterday?”
“Look, whatever that was about, we need to focus on practical matters now. My parents need transportation, and you’re the only one with time during the day.”
The audacity was breathtaking.
Less than twenty‑four hours after telling me I wasn’t worthy of sharing Christmas dinner with her family, she expected me to serve as their personal chauffeur.
“And you’re asking me because…?” I prompted.
“Because that’s what family does, Dennis. They help each other.” Her voice sharpened with irritation. “Besides, let’s be honest here. You’re not my rival. You’re too weak to be my rival. So just get in your truck and pick them up.”
There it was—the final insult wrapped in a command.
“What airline?” I asked quietly.
“Alaska Air, Flight 447. They’ll be at baggage claim, carousel three. And Dennis, they’re expecting someone who can handle their luggage properly. Don’t embarrass us.”
I could hear her nails tapping against something hard—probably her granite countertop, the one I’d paid for when she decided laminate wasn’t suitable for her dinner parties.
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll take care of everything.”
“Good. And wear something decent. Maybe that blue shirt you wore to Michael’s graduation. They notice things like that.”
The line went dead.
She hadn’t even said thank you.
I sat back in my chair, looking at my phone’s blank screen.
Two o’clock. Flight 447. Baggage claim, carousel three.
I glanced at the wall clock above my sink.
10:52 a.m.
Plenty of time.
I poured myself another cup of coffee, added an extra spoonful of sugar, and opened yesterday’s newspaper to the crossword puzzle I hadn’t finished.
Seven across: delayed gratification.
Twelve letters.
The answer would come to me eventually.
Part Six: The Airport Trap
At 2:15 p.m., I was settling into my favorite armchair with a fresh cup of Earl Grey and the Sunday edition of the Spokane Review.
The crossword from yesterday lay completed on my coffee table.
Delayed gratification had been “postponement.”
My phone buzzed against the wooden surface.
Isabella’s name again.
I let it ring.
The December sun slanted through my living room windows, warming the space where I’d spent so many lonely evenings counting the cost of my generosity.
Today, the silence felt different.
Earned.
Intentional.
2:47 p.m.
The phone buzzed again.
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