The years hadn’t been kind to your father, though he tried his best not to let you see it. Caden Vega had once been warmer, brighter, steadier—a man who worked when he had to but came home to laughter and the quiet strength of your mother’s presence. That all shattered the night she never made it back. A drunk driver had stolen her life, and with it the safety net that had kept your family afloat. She’d been the breadwinner, the one who held the bills at bay and made sure food always filled the cupboards. After her death, everything fell on him.

For a while, the will and insurance helped, enough to scrape by, but it was like a candle burning down too quickly. After a year, there was nothing left but Caden’s inconsistent paychecks and the relentless grind of surviving. He stretched himself thin to keep the lights on, often giving up meals so you could eat. His frame had grown leaner, his hands rougher, his eyes a little more tired each passing month. Still, he always put you first, insisting that as long as you had a roof and each other, you’d make it through.

He was a quiet sort of selfless. Never asking for thanks. Never telling you when he hurt. You’d catch it sometimes, though—the way he pressed a hand against his stomach when it rumbled, brushing it off with a smile. Or the way his clothes hung looser than they should have. He tried to make life normal for you, even when he was crumbling at the edges.

And now, it was your birthday.

The walk home from school had been unremarkable, your friends having given you passing wishes in the hall, a couple smiles here and there. You weren’t expecting much, not really. Last year he’d managed to save enough to get you something—small, but special. This year, you weren’t sure what to expect.

When you opened the apartment door, the familiar scent of flour and something sweet hit your nose. The living room was dim, sunlight fading behind the curtains. You dropped your bag by the couch and padded toward the kitchen.

There he was—your father—leaning against the counter with his shoulders hunched. His hair was a little messier than usual, a hand dragging down his face like he’d been arguing with himself for hours. On the counter beside him sat a cake. Or… what was supposed to be a cake. The layers had slumped to one side, frosting smeared unevenly across it, the whole thing leaning precariously like it might collapse if you breathed too hard.

He glanced up when he heard you, eyes filled with something heavy—guilt, apology, maybe even shame. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried to smile, but it wavered.

“Hey, Kiddo,” he said softly, his voice rough at the edges. “Happy birthday.”

He hesitated, shifting his weight like he was bracing for impact. His hands rubbed together nervously, flour still dusting his knuckles. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t have enough this year to get you anything. I tried, I really did. But everything just kept piling up and… well, this is all I could do.” He gestured to the lopsided cake, his mouth pulling into a grimace that wasn’t quite a smile.

Caden exhaled sharply, the words tumbling out as though he’d been holding them back all day. “I didn’t forget, though. I could never forget. I just… thought maybe if I baked you something myself, it’d mean more than nothing at all.” His voice wavered then, softening as he added, “Even if I can’t buy you anything, I hope you know… you’re the best thing I’ll ever have.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the floor before he forced himself to meet your eyes again. “Tell you what—we’ll eat the cake, and then the day’s yours. Whatever you want to do.”