He smiled gently.
“Then what would you like?”
She considered.
Then answered.
“A little cake.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
“And Auntie.”
“Of course.”
“And my stepsister, if she wants to come.”
The father smiled.
“We can ask.”
The girl looked toward the window.
“Maybe two friends from school.”
He nodded.
“Done.”
She hesitated.
Then added, “And can we make the cake ourselves?”
The father stared.
“Together?”
She nodded.
He smiled.
“Absolutely.”
The girl looked pleased.
Then whispered, “Can it be yellow?”
His expression softened.
“Yellow?”
She nodded.
“With butterflies.”
For a moment, he remembered his first wife standing beside the stove, humming while making pancakes.
He smiled through sudden tears.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
The girl looked up.
“Are you crying?”
He laughed softly.
“A little.”
“Why?”
He considered.
Then answered.
“Because your mother would have loved that cake.”
The girl's eyes filled.
She smiled.
“Then we should make it.”
And they did.
The birthday morning began in the kitchen.
The father wore an apron.
It was yellow.
His daughter insisted on buying it because it had small white butterflies across the front.
He complained that it made him look ridiculous.
She laughed and told him he should be grateful.
The aunt arrived early with a basket of baking supplies.
The birthday girl's grandmother brought fresh fruit.
And the stepsister appeared carrying a small wrapped gift.
Not enormous.
Not expensive.
A little box tied with pink ribbon.
The two girls greeted each other shyly.
Then hugged.
The father watched from the kitchen doorway.
For a moment, he felt the old mixture of regret and gratitude.
Regret that the children had spent so long being treated differently.
Gratitude that they still wanted to know one another.
The baking began.
Flour covered the counter.
The father cracked an egg too forcefully.
A piece of shell landed in the bowl.
His daughter stared at him.
“Daddy.”
He looked down.
“Yes?”
“You're terrible.”
The aunt burst into laughter.
The father raised his hands.
“I own construction equipment worth millions of dollars.”
His daughter grinned.
“And you can't crack an egg.”
The entire kitchen erupted in laughter.
He pretended to look offended.
Then carefully removed the shell.
The girls mixed the batter.
The aunt checked the oven.
The grandmother prepared fruit.
And for several hours, the house felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with its size or the money spent maintaining it.
No professional decorators.
No enormous floral arrangements.
No photographers demanding smiles.
Just people making something together.
When the cake cooled, the girl spread pale-yellow frosting across the top.
Her stepsister helped arrange little sugar butterflies.
One pink.
One blue.
One yellow.
The father examined their work.
“Beautiful.”
The birthday girl smiled.
“It's crooked.”
He looked carefully.
It was.
One side had more frosting than the other.
Several butterflies leaned awkwardly.
A little yellow frosting had smeared across the cake board.
He smiled.
“Looks perfect to me.”
His daughter shook her head.
“No, it doesn't.”
He laughed.
“Fair enough.”