My father laughed, not kindly but sharply, the way someone laughs when they want to remind you who holds the power.
“Kids like you don’t deserve gifts,” he said, wagging a finger at Ava as though she had committed some grave moral offense.
I felt something tighten in my chest. I’d grown up with that voice—cold, belittling, always judging. I had spent years working to keep my distance for the sake of my own sanity. But after Ava was born, I tried again. I told myself people could change with age. I told myself my daughter deserved a family, even if fractured. But in that moment, watching her eyes well with confusion, I realized that perhaps I had been wrong.
Still, Ava surprised me. She didn’t cry. She didn’t protest. Instead, she reached behind the sofa and pulled out a small package wrapped in crooked tape and candy-cane paper creased from her tiny hands.
