On New Year’s Eve, mom gave presents to every grandchild except mine, so I quietly left and said never to invite us again—then at 6:00 a.m. on January 1, my family’s “new year’s gift” arrived at their door.

Maya’s pen stopped moving.

Evelyn watched him with icy interest.

My mother looked between them all, her control slipping.

“Enough,” she said. “Julia, I don’t know what you want from me.”

That was when I realized she truly did not know.

Not because my needs were complicated.

Because she had spent my entire life refusing to imagine I had any.

“I wanted you to hand my children two gift bags,” I said.

She looked insulted. “After everything, you reduce this to gift bags?”

“No. You did. That was the point. You chose something small because small cruelties are easier to deny.”

Her face flushed.

“I have treated those children well.”

“Name one thing Emma likes,” I said.

She blinked.

The room went still.

I waited.

My mother’s lips parted.

Closed.

Opened again.

No answer came.

I nodded.

“Name Noah’s teacher.”

“Julia, that’s unfair—”

“Name his favorite color.”