Hidden Flame

My father turned to me, an eager grin breaking across his face. "Cake, then?"

I laughed, shaking my head at his excitement. "Of course."

It was tradition. One we both looked forward to.

We walked side by side into the expansive kitchen, the space bathed in the warm morning light filtering through tall windows. The room was a perfect blend of sophistication and comfort—gleaming marble countertops, elegant gold fixtures, and cabinets painted in a deep, rich navy. My mother's touch was everywhere, from the delicate faux floral centerpiece on the island to the intricate tilework along the backsplash.

But my focus was drawn to the antique oak dining table—the same one where we had shared countless meals over the years. And at its center sat a masterpiece.

A towering, multi-layered cake, rich and decadent, decorated with careful precision. The words Happy Birthday, Livi were piped in delicate script across the top, the icing a smooth canvas of soft ivory with subtle golden accents.

I couldn't help but smile.

For all the chaos that surrounded our lives, for all the things we didn't talk about, this was something constant.

I had to admire my father's dedication—year after year, he crafted these extravagant cakes, each more elaborate than the last. It wasn't just a birthday tradition; it was his way of making up for my mother's absence. A silent apology baked into every carefully layered masterpiece.

But in my eyes, he had nothing to atone for.

He had done everything he could for her. He still did everything for me. It wasn't his fault she was gone, though I knew he would never see it that way. He carried the weight of her death like a chain around his neck, a relentless guilt that whispered he could have done more, that he should have done something differently.

That guilt was why he was so relentless in protecting me now—why he watched me like a fragile piece of glass that might shatter at the slightest touch. He couldn't afford to lose me too. He would kill himself trying to prevent it.

The thought settled like a stone in my chest, heavy and unshakable.

I forced my focus back to the present, my gaze shifting to the towering creation before me.

"It's perfect, Dad," I murmured, my voice soft with sincerity.

His face lit up with pride. "I'm glad you like it."

I knew this moment meant everything to him. It was a small victory—starting my birthday with a smile. To him, that was the least I deserved.

"Well... I don't know about you, but I want to eat it." I laughed, breaking the tension.

He chuckled, reaching for the long cake knife. He sliced into the cake, the blade gliding through the layers with ease, and placed two generous portions on our plates—larger than either of us could handle, but that was part of the tradition too.

We sat at the table, anticipation humming in the air as I raised my fork and took the first bite.

My senses were immediately overwhelmed—a rush of deep cocoa, rich and indulgent, melting against my tongue. The velvety texture was perfection, the sweetness balanced by a subtle bitterness from the dark chocolate. It was decadent and familiar, a taste woven into my childhood.

"You've outdone yourself this year," I managed around a mouthful, my voice muffled by frosting.

"That good, huh?" My father chuckled, watching as I dove back in for another bite.