Christmas Day, every Christmas Day

Once, there was a man who would spend the whole of Christmas Day, every Christmas Day, waiting for his eldest daughter to come home. But she never came. And on the rare occasion that she did come, she would be three hours too late and excuse herself after a mere (though very awkward) forty-five minutes.

The man thought his daughter resented him, for things he did - or failed to do - in the past. But that wasn't the case. Or maybe it was, but it wasn't why she stayed away. Commercialised, Christian holidays just didn't mean anything to her; they played an even smaller part in her life than her father did.

The problem was, simply, that she cared too little and he cared too much, and neither of them could bring themselves to talk about it.

So the daughter stayed away, having better things to do, and the father moped, quelling the holiday cheers of the rest of his family with his silent lack of Christmas Spirit.

And so it went, year upon year upon year, until the man's youngest daughter sat down behind her computer and wrote it all down, and felt like crap on Christmas Day.

And so it would go on, year upon year upon year, right down to the very last Christmas they wouldn't celebrate together.