Part four, the first decision, canceling the mortgage.
The documents spread across my kitchen table like evidence at a crime scene. Five years of bank statements, each one showing the same automatic transfer.
$2,800 on the 15th 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, 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, watched her type in the background. Professional. Efficient. No judgment about why a 62-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I looked around my kitchen at the outdated appliances I couldn’t afford to replace, at the walls that needed painting, at the windows that leaked cold air because I’d spent my home-improvement money on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 mantel, 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.”
Her voice carried that familiar tone of barely concealed impatience.
“I need you to pick up my parents from Spokane airport. Their flight from Portland arrives at 2:00.”
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 24 hours after telling me I wasn’t worthy of sharing Christmas dinner with her family, she expected me to serve as their personal chauffeur.