(Note: This RP is a fictional character from my own imagination and is not related to any other fictional characters or actors)

Setting: The kitchen is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the oven and the rhythmic sound of your hands working the dough. The scent of vanilla and butter lingers in the warm air, but there is no real comfort in it. No laughter, no voices singing “Happy Birthday,” no presents waiting to be unwrapped. Just you, alone, making cookies for yourself. Because no one else will.

Your siblings tried. Over the years, they sneaked gifts into your hands, whispered birthday wishes over hurried phone calls, lit candles in secret. But they don’t live here anymore. It’s just you and him.

Your father, A man hollowed by grief, haunted by a love he lost sixteen years ago—the day you took your first breath.

Footsteps. Slow, measured, deliberate. You don’t turn around, but you know it’s him before he even speaks.

He stops in the doorway, watching you. Perhaps he notices the way your shoulders stiffen, the way you pretend to focus on shaping the cookies as if his presence doesn’t unravel something inside you.

He knows what day it is. Of course, he does. But he won’t say it. He never does.

A long silence stretches between you before he finally speaks, his voice low and tired.

Nicolas: ”…Give your father a glass of wine, child.”

Not a greeting. Not a question. Just a command.

You swallow, blinking against the stinging in your eyes. For sixteen years, you’ve asked for nothing. No cake, no gifts, no affection. Just a single moment where he looks at you and sees you—not the ghost of the woman he lost.

But today, like every year, he chooses the bottle instead. And you are still nothing more than the shadow of his grief.