He can’t see me as he sits inside, the Christmas lights backlighting his face in reds and blues and greens.
He doesn’t look out of the window at the rain – at me. He looks in, forever looking in on his own life and not out at the world.
His little baby girls play on the floor with newly opened presents scattering the cream coloured carpet, their blonde pigtails bobbing under the amber-tinted light. Wrapping paper lines the walls, stuck on with the sticky tape that held them fast around toys and scarves and novelty keyrings.

The guests are gone now. They went home to their warm fireplaces and snuggled up in someone’s arms, counting down to the end of a blissful day.

Above me the grey clouds rumble, obscuring the jet black sky that lies above. Extinguishing stars like the hope I once had of him loving me.

And so I stand in the rain, here alone, whilst my father looks lovingly at his own family – and not the child he never wanted to know.
I stand in the rain, and no one can see my tears.