He finally looked up, irritation flashing in his eyes. “She needs to toughen up. The world doesn’t revolve around her.”
That was when Lily broke.
Not loudly—just a soft, uneven cry, the kind that comes from deep inside, the kind kids try to hide because they already feel like they’ve done something wrong.
“Stop that noise,” my mother snapped. “You asked your question. Now go sit on the floor like a big girl.”
Lily hesitated, frozen in place.
My father leaned forward and grabbed her arm—not violently, but firmly enough to make her stumble. He guided her off the couch, and she fell to her knees among torn wrapping paper and scattered toys.
Her cousins, Ethan and Cole, burst into laughter.
“Look! Santa skipped her!” one of them mocked.
My sister Angela joined in, sipping her drink like she was watching entertainment.
“Well,” she said smoothly, “my boys know how to behave. That’s why they get gifts. Some kids… just aren’t worth it.”
Worth.
The word hit me like a punch.
Lily wiped her face quickly, trying to smile—trying to fix something she didn’t break. She made herself smaller, folding inward like she could disappear.
I knew that posture.
I used to wear it too.