I used to count the days until my dad would call.
At first, after the divorce, he still remembered birthdays and weekends. He’d promise to visit, promise to take me fishing again, promise we’d still be a family somehow.
Then the calls became shorter.
Then they became excuses.
Then they stopped.
Mom tried to hide how badly it hurt her, but I heard her crying at night when she thought I was asleep. A year later, she married Greg.
Everyone said I should be grateful.
“He’s stable.”
“He works hard.”
“He’s willing to raise another man’s kid.”
But Greg never really raised me.
He existed around me.
That was it.
He never hit me. Never yelled for no reason. Never forgot to pay the bills.
But he never looked at me either.
At dinner, he’d ask Mom how her day was and stare straight past me like I was part of the wallpaper.
If I got an A at school, he shrugged.
If I got sick, he’d tell Mom, “Kids get sick.”
Once, when I was ten, I asked if he could come watch my school play.
He didn’t even glance up from his phone.
“I work,” he said flatly.
That became his answer for everything.
By thirteen, I stopped trying.
Mostly.
But a tiny part of me still wanted him to care.
Two weeks before his birthday, our teacher told us to make something meaningful for someone in our family. Some kids made cards. Others bought little gifts.
I decided to bake a cake.
Mom worked late shifts at the hospital, so I spent two evenings watching baking videos and trying not to burn the kitchen down. I used my allowance to buy frosting tubes and candles.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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