Instead, my dad looked up from the couch, eyes already narrowed, and said, “Don’t cause drama. Just leave it and go.”

No hello. No Merry Christmas. Just that.

The words hit me with a familiarity that made my stomach twist. I paused in the doorway, the cold still clinging to my coat, the cake box in my hands starting to feel heavier by the second.

“It’s just a cake,” I said quietly. My voice sounded small even to me. “I thought I’d bring something.”

He didn’t answer. He just turned back to the TV, remote in hand, pretending I’d already become background noise.

Mom came in from the kitchen a moment later, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She glanced at the cake like it was an inconvenience.

“What’s that?” she asked.