Grandfather got me a box for my 15th birthday. It was a pleasant surprise, I guess – he usually never got me anything. “Why should I get her anything?” he always said. “It goes without saying that I’m happy she’s alive. If she needs proof if it, she’s the one who needs to get ME a gift. After all I’ve done for her. Bah. Why are we even discussing this? Look at her. She’s like a little blowfish. You touch her and she puffs up. Gift. Hah!”

And yet, there was the box.

“You’re starting high school soon.” Father told me then, as I carefully studied the box. “He wanted to make it special.”

“You were starting high school.” Father told me years later, refusing to meet my gaze. “He didn’t want people to think you were a freak.”

I opened the box. When I was fifteen, when Father told me the truth, and now, as you stare at me. It’s empty now, obviously. No tricks or gimmicks. Frankly, no use for it whatsoever. Besides looking nice.

But, you know, that was what I liked about the box. In fact, it’s the box that I pretended was the gift in the first place.

Because the thing inside—

It scared me.

And it scares me even more now.

Because now, I know that Father had it wrong. Grandfather did love me. He loved me more than anyone else in that family. And he gave that box to me, trying to communicate his love in the only way he ever knew how.

He wanted me to understand he would never let anyone hurt me.

But even the best laid plans fall apart. All it takes is a single domino to tip over. And we end up here.