One thing Santana never expected from her grandmother was complete silence. Despite all her problems, the times she got suspended from school, the fights she got into as a child and later, the alcohol, the drugs, and the destructive spiral she got into before Brittany came into her life – all of that was always forgiven eventually. All of that was always talked about, even if talking about it meant that Santana had to relive the pain of each infraction, each depressive spiral, over and over again.

It never seemed so bad the second time. She never felt as horrible and wrong, and Abuela would kiss her, stroke back her dark hair, and feed her nourishing food that somehow seemed to solve whatever problem made Santana feel constantly guilty.

"Abuela . . ." Santana stands, reaching out to touch her grandmother and failing. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because there are some things we don't tell people, Santana. There are some things we keep secret, silent."

Santana looks down. "I told you I was gay because I thought you would accept me for who I was. Because you've accepted everything else I've done – because you love me."

"And now I want you to leave. I can't accept this. I can't accept this . . . sin."

Later, Santana sits in her living room, staring at the decorations her mother put up yesterday, and wondering what the fuck the meaning of Christmas is if it isn't to be with family who loves you.

One Christmas, Santana remembers, she'd gotten suspended for hitting a kid over the head with a foam candy cane lawn decoration. She'd missed her class Christmas party, and had ended up at home, watching the snow fall from the windows of her room, confined for the amount of time she was suspended.

Abuela had been recruited to look after Santana while her parents were at work, and had been left strict instructions to only let Santana out of her room for lunchtime. Instead, Abuela had let Santana sit with her and watch soap operas on TV, sipping hot chocolate and cuddling on the couch. Instead of it feeling like punishment, it had felt like a vacation, sitting with the lights of the tree brightening the room and the smell of Abuela's favourite Harvest Spice candle on the mantle.

Abuela had stared deeply into Santana's eyes and told her, "It doesn't matter what you do. You are a strong girl, ready to speak up for what she believes in and fight for what she feels is right. I am proud of you."

And Santana had known she was loved.

Standing on the other side of Abuela's door, she leans against the cold painted surface and begins to cry, the tears freezing on the ground below her.

She thought she could never do anything so awful that Abuela would stop loving her.

"I love you," she whispers. "Why can't you love me for who I am?"

But, only silence answers her.