I wanted to believe that becoming a grandmother might have changed my mother.

Maybe she would be gentler with Maisie than she had ever been with me.

Maybe, for once, she would look at my daughter and see only a little girl who deserved to be loved.

And despite everything I had experienced over the years, I still wanted to give her that chance.

Grant helped me fasten Maisie’s coat while I packed the last of her things.

Her bottle, an extra outfit, a soft blanket, and the small stuffed rabbit she had recently begun carrying everywhere went into the diaper bag.

Before we left, I picked up the presents we had brought for my family.

There were seven of them in all.

One for my mother, one for Aunt Elaine, and the others for the relatives who would be gathering at Patricia’s house that afternoon.

They were modest gifts, chosen carefully rather than extravagantly.

I had wrapped my mother’s present in silver paper because she had once mentioned liking it.

Even after all those years, I still found myself remembering small preferences.

That was the strange thing about loving someone who often hurt you.

You could carry every painful memory and still remember how they took their coffee.

Grant opened the front door, and a sharp winter wind moved through the hallway.

Maisie made a soft sound from her car seat.

I bent down and kissed the top of her head.

“Ready for your first family Christmas?” I whispered.

She blinked up at me, then reached for the ribbon tied around her blanket.

Grant watched us with a faint smile.

“If your mother says anything that crosses a line, we leave,” he said.

I looked at him.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself or convince anyone that you’re upset.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t have to wait until it becomes unbearable.”

This time, I took a breath before answering.

“I know, Grant.”

His expression softened.

“I’m not trying to pressure you.”

“I know that too.”

He touched my shoulder.

“I just want you to remember that you and Maisie are allowed to have a peaceful Christmas.”

Those words stayed with me as we drove across town.

Snow covered the edges of the road, and the gray sky hung low over Columbus.

The streets were quiet, with only the occasional car passing through the pale afternoon light.

Maisie slept in the back seat, one small hand curled around the ear of her stuffed rabbit.

I kept checking the mirror to make sure she was comfortable.

Every time I looked at her, I felt both protective and guilty.

Protective because she was my child.

Guilty because I had chosen to take her somewhere that might not be emotionally safe.

Grant seemed to sense what I was thinking.

“You’re not responsible for what your mother says,” he told me.

“I’m responsible for bringing Maisie there.”

“You’re bringing her to meet family.”

“I know.”

“You’re not bringing her into a situation you expect to be harmful.”

I stared out the window at the snow-dusted trees.

“I don’t know what to expect.”

“That’s why we’re going together.”

The house appeared at the end of a quiet street lined with bare maple trees.

My mother’s home was large and carefully maintained, with white shutters, polished brass fixtures, and a wreath on the front door that looked as though it had been arranged with a ruler.

Even from the driveway, I could see decorations glowing in the windows.

When I was a child, I had believed the house looked perfect because my mother was perfect.

Later, I understood that perfection had always been a kind of performance.

Everything had its proper place.

Everything had to appear orderly.

And anything that threatened that appearance was quietly pushed out of sight.

Grant came around to help me with the car seat.

By the time we reached the front porch, the door opened.

My mother stood there wearing a deep green dress and a string of pearls.

Her silver-blond hair was arranged neatly around her face.

She smiled when she saw Maisie.

“There’s my little Christmas girl,” she said.

For a moment, relief warmed my chest.

Perhaps I had been wrong to worry.

Perhaps this was the day something changed.

My mother leaned toward the car seat and looked at Maisie.

Then her smile shifted.

“She’s still so tiny.”

“She’s growing well,” I said.

“I didn’t say she wasn’t.”

The words were mild, but the familiar edge beneath them was not.

Grant carried the presents inside while I lifted Maisie from the car seat.

My mother stepped aside.

“Everyone’s in the living room,” she said.

Aunt Elaine greeted us first.