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

She wanted to see them. She asked me three weeks before Christmas, Mom, do I have a grandpa? That was her way of asking why we were always alone during the holidays, why we didn’t have matching pajamas or giant trees or cousins to run around with, so I said yes, and when she asked if we could visit him this year, I said yes again, against my better judgment. I don’t know what I expected.

Maybe I thought time would’ve softened them. Maybe I believed just for a moment that when they saw Kaya, when they really looked at her, they’d feel something. Warmth.

Regret. Love. Anything.

Instead, the minute we pulled into the driveway, I felt that old weight settle back onto my shoulders. That invisible tension that coils around your ribs like barbed wire when you’re trying to smile for people who don’t really want you there. Their house hadn’t changed.

Still cold. Still perfect. Still spotless.

In that way that feels less like home and more like a museum. My mother greeted us with that plastic politeness she’d mastered over the years. A quick hug for me.

Soft pat on the head for Kaya. Her eyes lingered too long on the scuff marks on Kaya’s boots. I saw it.

How she took her in like an item on a shelf, deciding whether or not she belonged. Sandra barely looked up from her phone when we walked in. She offered Kaya a half-hearted hey, then went right back to scrolling.

I could already feel my stomach tightening. And then there was Frank. My father.

He was in his usual chair by the fireplace, whiskey glass in one hand, TV remote in the other. Didn’t even stand up. Just gave a nod and muttered, didn’t think you’d actually show up.

That was his way of saying hello. Kaya gave him a shy wave, her mittened fingers poking through the wool. Hi, Grandpa, she said softly, like she was testing the word out loud for the first time.

He grunted. I don’t know why I still hoped for more. Maybe because Kaya was trying so hard.

She’d made little drawings for everyone, carefully colored, folded, and tucked into envelopes with their names on the front. She even asked me how to spell to my Aunt Sandra, because she wanted it to be perfect. She worked on them every night for a week.

I wanted this to be special for her. I wanted her to feel like she had a family, even if they were far from perfect. I scraped together what I could from tips and extra shifts just to buy her one nice outfit, a little gift to open, and enough gas to get us there.

That morning, as I tied her scarf, she looked up at me and said, Do you think they’ll like my drawings? And I said, Sweetheart, they’re going to love them. But in the pit of my stomach. I already knew the truth.

I was bringing her into a house where kindness was currency they never gave out for free, where smiles were measured, and love had conditions. Still, I tried. I told myself this was about Kaia, not me, that I could keep my chin up, play nice, pretend for one day that everything was okay.

But as I watched her heart quietly break in front of them over something as cruel as an empty gift box, I realized they hadn’t changed. And I wasn’t sure they ever would. Kaia handed out her little envelopes like they were treasures.

She moved through the room so gently, like she was afraid to disturb any. Each envelope had a name on the front, written in her careful, blocky handwriting. She gave one to my mother first, then Sandra, then even my brother Matt, who’d barely spoken a word since we walked in…