My daughter opened her gift, an empty box. My father laughed..

I will never forget the sound of the wrapping paper tearing. It was the only thing anyone could hear. No music, no laughter, just that quiet crinkle as my daughter, Kaya, carefully unwrapped her gift.

Her tiny fingers tugging at the corners like it was the most precious thing in the world. And for a second, she actually smiled. That soft, hopeful kind of smile kids get when they think magic might still be real.

But when she opened the box, her whole face shifted. Confusion first, then a flicker of something deeper. Hurt, maybe.

Her little shoulders stiffened, and she glanced at me. The box was empty. I saw it before she even said a word.

Just a plain cardboard bottom. No tissue paper, no toy, not even a note. Just nothing.

I blinked, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Was it a mistake? Did something fall out? Maybe someone forgot to pack it? But before I could open my mouth, I heard him. My father, Frank.

He let out this sharp laugh, short and cold like a bark in winter. He sat back in his armchair, folded his arms, and said, Kids like her shouldn’t expect anything. World’s got enough leeches already.

My heart dropped. Kaya froze. Her hands were still in the box, like maybe she just hadn’t seen the gift yet, like maybe it was hiding under the flaps or tucked in the corner.

But there was nothing. I felt the heat rush up my chest. My hands trembled where they rested on my lap.

I wanted to say something, anything, but the words caught in my throat like splinters. Then Sandra, my sister, snorted and muttered, She’s just like her mother, always expecting handouts. Worthless.

My jaw clenched. I could feel the muscles in my face tightening, the burn behind my eyes threatening to spill over. I forced myself to look at Kaya…