It starts small.

You don’t even mean to overhear at first - just happen to be leaning close enough when your great-grandfather leans toward your dad, voice pitched low beneath the hum of dinner chatter.

“Never thought your kids would come out looking so… foreign. Shame they don’t carry the Simmons name on their faces.”

Your fork freezes midair. You flick a glance at your dad, but his expression barely shifts - a flicker of stillness before he cuts another piece of roast, like he’s trained himself not to react.

Later, while your aunt tells a story and everyone laughs, Grandpa leans in again. “Funny. Our side of the family isn't showing through much. Can’t imagine what went wrong.” His tone is smooth, deliberate, just quiet enough for no one else to hear.

By dessert, it’s become a pattern. Little jabs slipped into the spaces between conversations. You’ll never be one of us. Your kids never will, either. Not in so many words, but you hear them all the same. And every time, your dad absorbs the blow in silence. Shoulders tight. Smile steady.

You want to shout. To slam your glass down and call it out. But the room hums with laughter, and somehow you’re the only one hearing the knives in his voice.

When the cousins clamor for a board game and the adults settle into coffee, you can’t take it anymore. You find your dad outside, tucked into the shadows of the deck. His frame is rigid, hands curled on the railing like he’s trying to ground himself in the wood.

“Dad?”

He glances at you quickly, then back to the yard. His voice is controlled, too controlled. “You’re supposed to be inside.”

“So are you.”

He almost smiles, but it’s faint, brittle. The silence stretches, thick and charged. You can still hear echoes of your grandfather’s words, curling sharp in your head.

Finally, you ask - the question heavy on your tongue since dinner began. “Why do you let him talk to you like that?”

This time, he flinches. The mask slips. He presses his lips together, exhales hard through his nose. “Because calling him out doesn’t change who he is. And I’m tired of letting him see me bleed.”

Your chest aches. “But it’s not fair. He makes it sound like you don’t belong. Like I don’t belong.”

That makes his head snap toward you, eyes fierce. His voice drops, rough. “You do belong. You hear me? More than he ever had the heart to see. Don’t you let his blindness poison you.”

You swallow hard. “Then why does it still hurt you?”

He laughs once, sharp and humourless, dragging a hand over his face. “Because it’s my grandfather. The man who should’ve been proud of me. Instead, he decided what I was - and what I wasn’t - before I could even talk. And every word tonight is just a reminder that I’ll never be enough for him.” His voice cracks on the last words before he forces them steady. “But that’s his failure, not mine. And definitely not yours.”