Gone.
I accelerated when the light turned green.
Fifth Street—where I refinanced my house to fund their down payment.
Lincoln Street—where I took a second mortgage after Michael lost his job.
“Just temporary,” he’d said.
Isabella had nodded, her $700 purse over her shoulder.
Temporary became permanent.
I pulled into my driveway, cracked concrete mocking me.
Inside, the house felt emptier than ever.
My phone rang.
Isabella.
I answered on the fourth ring.
“Dennis,” she said sweetly. “I heard there was a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” I said evenly.
“My parents are traditional,” she continued. “They expect a certain… atmosphere.”
“And what atmosphere would that be?”
I heard shopping bags rustling.
“Well… they’re not used to your cooking. The spices. The music. They’re educated people. They expect intellectual conversation.”
Eight years of swallowed insults boiled up.
u
“The food you ate every Sunday when money was tight?” I asked calmly.
“The tamales you said reminded you of your grandmother?”
