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

She wasn’t crying. Not yet. But her lips were pressed tight, and her chin was trembling the way it does right before it breaks.

Her eyes, those big soft eyes, were filling with tears she was too proud to let fall. She looked at me again, not asking for help, just checking if she should pretend it didn’t hurt. And in that moment, I hated myself.

I hated that I’d brought her here, that I’d hoped, maybe stupidly, for a normal Christmas, that I thought my father could be different, that I wanted them to see the beautiful, kind, creative girl Kaya was and love her like I did. But they didn’t see her. To them, she was just an extension of me, a reminder of my divorce, my failure, the mess I’d made of my life according to them.

The room was dead silent except for the soft hum of the heater and the ticking of the grandfather clock behind Frank’s chair. Each second sounded louder than the last, like it was counting down to a moment I wasn’t ready for. Kaya looked down at the empty box again.

Her fingers brushed the edge, then slowly she folded the flaps shut. Her hands were shaking now, and then… She whispered something. I got you a gift too, Grandpa.

Everyone turned. Frank looked up, that smug grin still on his face. Oh yeah, he said, half laughing.

This’ll be good. But Kaya didn’t back down. She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a small piece of paper, folded with such care it made my chest ache.

She took a step forward and held it out to him with both hands, and right then I knew. This moment wasn’t over. Something was coming.

Something none of us were ready for. I hadn’t been home for Christmas in over two years. Not since the divorce.

Not since the shame. Not since everything I’d been trying to hold together finally cracked wide open. Kaya…