“You’re the absolute best! New York in spring, can you imagine?” Her voice held a familiar lilt that took me back to when she was just seven years old. I allowed myself a smile. Then, her tone changed. “Actually, Dad, there’s one tiny thing,” she continued. “Michael mentioned we’ll need extra for excursions and nice dinners. Could you maybe transfer another fifteen hundred?”

The kitchen seemed to shrink around me. “Emily, I’ve already paid for everything,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Flights, hotel, it’s all covered. That’s the budget.”

Her sigh crackled through the speaker. “Fine. Thanks for the tickets, anyway.” The call ended abruptly. No goodbye.

Two months slipped by in a haze. Then, on March 20th, my phone buzzed again. A voicemail from Emily. I pressed play.

“Dad,” her voice was flat, lacking any warmth. “You’re not flying with us to New York. My husband doesn’t want to see you. I know you paid for everything, but it’s better this way. We’ll still go, obviously, just without you. Sorry.”