I hesitated, holding a fragile glass star. My parents’ home in the affluent suburbs was a temple of perfection—immaculate carpets, coordinated decor, and an atmosphere that usually suffocated me. Harper had always been the afterthought there, overshadowed by Amanda’s children, Ethan (13) and Zoe (10), who were showered with the kind of lavish attention Harper only read about in books.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “It can be… intense without me there as a buffer.”

“I want to go,” Harper insisted, her eyes bright with a hope that made my chest ache. “Grandma said she needs help with the cranberry tarts. I think… I think this year might be different.”

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that my parents could love her the way she deserved to be loved. So, against my better judgment, I agreed.

“Text me,” I commanded on Christmas morning, hugging her tightly in the kitchen before I left for the hospital. “Text me when you arrive, text me when you eat, text me if you sneeze.”

“I’ve got this, Mom,” she laughed, pushing me toward the door. “Go save lives.”

I walked out into the cold December morning, unaware that while I was off saving strangers, my own family was preparing to break my daughter’s heart.