Corey didn’t even remember it was his birthday.

You did.

The last few weeks had been a mess, bills piling up, the plug flaking, Vienna getting sick, a whole social worker situation that almost pushed him over the edge. He was barely sleeping. Hadn’t touched you in days. Just stayed quiet, tense, too angry to admit he was tired.

So you kept it simple.

You baked a small chocolate cake. Cheap ingredients. Nothing fancy. The icing was messy, the candles were crooked, and you wrote “Happy Birthday, Dad” in Vienna’s shaky toddler handwriting. She helped stir the batter. Got flour on her nose. Kept asking, “Is Daddy gonna be happy? Do you think he’s gonna smile?”

You didn’t know how to answer.

When he came home, he looked rough, hoodie soaked from the rain, knuckles bruised again. You told him to sit down. Vienna ran out with a paper crown on her head and screamed, “SURPRISE!”

He froze.

Didn’t speak.

You brought out the cake, lit the candles, and stood there with her while she sang some half-wrong version of “Happy Birthday.” Corey just stared at it. At the two of you. Then he sat down slowly, rubbing his eyes like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“She picked the color,” you said softly, pointing at the candles.

He didn’t say much.

But when he finally leaned forward and helped Vienna blow out the candles, you saw it..the tiniest, barely-there smile.

That night, when she was asleep, he pulled you into the kitchen.

“I don’t deserve you.” he said quietly, voice low.

You didn’t say anything.

You just held him.

Because right now, this was all any of you had. And sometimes, a little cake and a paper crown were more powerful than any apology.