But a tiny part of me still wanted him to care.
Two weeks before his birthday, our teacher told us to make something meaningful for someone in our family. Some kids made cards. Others bought little gifts.
I decided to bake a cake.
Mom worked late shifts at the hospital, so I spent two evenings watching baking videos and trying not to burn the kitchen down. I used my allowance to buy frosting tubes and candles.
I wrote “BEST DAD” in shaky blue icing.
It looked terrible.
But I was proud of it.
For once, I imagined Greg might smile. Maybe awkwardly. Maybe briefly. But maybe he’d finally see me.
For illustrative purposes only
The night of his birthday, Mom lit candles while I carried the cake out with trembling hands.
Greg looked surprised.
“For you,” I said quietly.
He stared at the words on the cake.
Then his face hardened.
“Stop.”
The room went silent.
“I’m serious,” he snapped. “Stop doing this.”
I felt my cheeks burn.
“Doing what?”
“This.” He pointed at the cake like it offended him. “Pretending I’m your father.”
Mom shifted uncomfortably. “Greg…”
