Her words landed heavy. I remembered her little face at the window the next morning, all hopeful for a second before she saw the empty spot under the tree. “I told you Santa made a mistake,” I said. “You just said okay and went to play with your socks.”

She gave a small laugh that didn’t sound happy. “I never asked for anything big after that,” she said. “Figured it was easier that way.”

The receipt was still under my fingers. I peeled the tape back a little more and the paper made a dry sound. “I kept meaning to tell you when you got older,” I said. “But the time never felt right and then you were off at school.”

Sarah looked at the telescope inside the box. The black tube caught the light from the ceiling fixture. “I bought this one myself last month,” she said. “Same model. I wanted to see what it would have been like.”

I stood there with my hand still on the receipt. The room felt smaller all of a sudden. “I’m sorry I took it back,” I said. The words came out plain and flat. “I should have found another way.”

She reached over and covered my hand with hers. Her palm was warm. “I know why you did it,” she said. “I just wish I had known back then so I could have helped somehow.”

Nobody at the table said a word. The clock on the wall kept ticking like nothing had changed. I looked at her and didn’t know what came next. She smiled the same way she did when she was nine and said “It’s okay, Dad.” That was all she gave me.