The apartment feels completely deserted the moment I push the door open with my keys. Only the kitchen light spills a yellow glow through the darkness. I flick on the hallway switch and squint at the wall clock. Almost four in the afternoon.

I open my mouth to call out for Mom and Dad, but before a sound escapes, strong arms wrap around my waist. I'm lifted off the floor and carried straight into the kitchen by…Dad.

"My dearest daughter," he says in that desperate tone of his, "Can you please tell me where the sugar is?"

He sets me down on the counter. That's when I finally take in the disaster zone around us. Flour dusts every surface near the sink. Utensils lie scattered. Dad stands there in his reading glasses, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and an apron cinched around his waist.

"Dad, what are you doing?" I ask, pointing toward the cabinet where Mom always keeps the sugar.

He darts over, promptly bangs his shin against the fridge door, winces, but still manages to grab the canister. Mission accomplished, apparently.

"Why didn't you remind me it was mom's birthday today?" he demands while dumping sugar into what I hope is cake batter.

"I thought you would wish her happy birthday on your own this time." I tilt my head, "But you forgot, didn't you? Were you sketching her again, lost in your own world, and didn't notice the hours slipping by? Then Mom decided to go spend the day with her friends instead?"

He turns to stare at me, horrified, "You're becoming awfully like your mother." He grumbles the words, but there's no real heat in them. He goes back to stirring the batter in careful circles.

"This has happened five times now," I point out with a shrug, "I still don't understand why Mom forgives you every single time." I finally slide my bag off my shoulder and lean it against the wall. My eyes catch the bowl of strawberries on the counter, "Oh! Strawberries!"

I pop one into my mouth. Dad glances over and smiles, the kind of smile he only gets when he's thinking about her, "Strawberry cake," he announces, "What do you think?"

"Excellent choice. It's Mom's favorite, right?" I nod approvingly, then add, "But it's a terrible idea for you to be the one making it. You're hopeless at baking. No one can touch Mom's cooking skills."

"That's part of her charm," he says, his voice turning dreamy, as if he's seeing her right there in the flour-dusted kitchen.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you tell me the story of how you met Mom again?"

I've heard it a hundred times. Maybe more but it still feels better than any fairy tale I've ever read.

Dad leans against the counter, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the white-tinted batter like he's thinking hard. His glasses are a little foggy from the kitchen air.

"Well, it was love at first sight, the kind of thing you read about in books but it was more than that too." He pauses, frowning a little as he searches for the right way to explain, "How do I say it? It's different from how books describe it. We didn't just fall in love without any problems..."

"Dad! No sad stuff on Mom's birthday!" I cut in, swinging my legs against the cabinet below me.

He chuckles and dips the spoon back into the bowl, "Forgive me, my red princess." He scooped batter into the cake pan with messy scoops.

"I met her during one of my projects," he continues, "It landed me a job right in a courthouse where she was working as an intern. I spent most of my time sketching the interiors and talking with my colleagues, but sometimes our paths would cross. She was usually with her friends, laughing out loud, but she had this fierce personality, just like..."

"Me!" I finish for him, grinning big.

He reaches over with both hands, still covered in flour and ruffles my hair hard. White powder puffs into the air like snow. I squeal and try to duck away, but I'm too slow. Flour dusts my cheeks and the top of my head. I swat at his hands, laughing.

"I was almost scared to ask her out," he says, wiping his palms on his apron. "But I took the leap anyway. Thankfully, your mom said yes and..."

"And?" I lean forward, eyes wide. I love this part.

"We found out we had nothing in common." He shakes his head, smiling like it's the funniest memory, "She liked wild things—hiking, traveling on her motorcycle—"

"Oh! Can I have a bike too?" I blurt out, swaying a little on the counter.

Dad laughs again and taps the end of my nose with a clean finger, "Maybe when you're older, troublemaker. Now help me smooth this batter before it sets funny."

I hop down with his help, grab a spatula, and stand next to him, ready to make sure the cake turns out perfect for Mom. By the time he placed the cake into the oven, he lightly pushed me out of the kitchen and told me to freshen up and wear the clothes he left on my bed.

I slip into the black dress and the ridiculous multicolored lace wraps around my waist like a candy cane. I stare at myself in the mirror, tug at it once, then slide my current book back onto the study table in a perfect straight line with all the others. I race down the hallway, bare feet slapping against the wood.

"Dad…do I really need to wear the lace?" I ask, pouting as I reach the living room.

He turns on the couch, phone already up, and starts snapping pictures. I tug harder at the lace, fingers itching to rip it off, but he sticks out his bottom lip in a pout right back at me.

I sigh, defeated, and flop down beside him on the couch. He hands me the remote, and heads to the TV stand. He pulls out the big box stuffed with our Barbie movie collection.

"Which one today, princess?" he asks, holding the box open.

I think for a second, smiling as I remember my favorite, "Barbie and the Diamond Castle!" I say, excited to watch the movie.

He pops the DVD in, grabs the remote back, and settles next to me again. The opening music starts, and we both lean back into the cushions. As the movie plays, every time a song comes on, we belt it out at the top of our lungs. I wave my arms like I'm on stage. Dad joins in from the kitchen too, his voice carrying over the clatter while he checks the oven. Somewhere between the songs and the giggles, my eyes get heavy. I curl up against his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear, and drift off.

The doorbell rings suddenly. We both jolt upright, groggy and blinking. The TV screen glows with static, blue-white light flickering across our faces.

"Who is it…" Dad grumbles, rubbing his eyes as he shuffles to the door. He peeks through the peephole, then jumps back like he's been shocked. He scrambles over to me on tiptoes, whispering fast, "It's Mom. You know the drill, right?"

"Yes, I do," I mumble, still half-asleep. I yawn huge, stretch my arms, and climb off the couch. My dress is a little wrinkled now, but I don't care.

I pad over to the door while Dad hurries back to the kitchen to bring the cake to the dining table when he gasps loud. I stop before the door and decide to dash to the kitchen where Dad is and he kneels in front of me and whispers, “Change of plan, tell mom to close eyes and sit at the couch. We forgot to decorate the strawberries!” and pushed me out of the kitchen again.

Why is my dad so clumsy and forgetful?

The doorbell rings again, followed by a tired voice from outside, “Honey, open the door. I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

Mom…sounds exhausted. She is probably calling for Dad, completely unaware that he is trying his best with the cake he has made.

“Dad! I am opening the door!” I call out. He flashes me a thumbs up from the dining table, carefully setting the white frosted cake down.

I hurry to the door and twist the handle. Mom stands there with her bag slung over her shoulder, gift boxes overflowing and threatening to spill onto the floor.

“Mom! Close your eyes!” I blurt out before she can even step inside.

She laughs but closes them obediently. I grab her hand and tug her forward, letting her sit on the couch, “Don’t open them, okay?”

“All right, all right,” she says, amused. She sets her bag down near the couch, “But why does it smell like strawberries here?” Her lips curve into a knowing smile, “What are you two planning?”

I climb onto the couch and lean close to her ear. “Blame Dad,” I whisper, then jump off and sprint toward the dining table. Dad has already placed a bowl of strawberries beside the cake. I scramble onto a chair and pick up a bright red berry.

“Do the honor, princess,” he whispers.

Carefully, I place the strawberry on top of the frosting. Dad joins in, and together we decorate the cake, arranging the berries into an uneven heart. I tilt my head, inspecting our work, then nod in approval.

When we are done, Dad lifts me up with one arm and carries me toward Mom. She is still sitting on the couch, her fingers tapping against her knee like she knows what we are doing.

“Jerome,” she says, “you made a cake, didn’t you?”

Dad freezes for a second. I can see him pouting like his entire plan has been ruined, “You would never guess the flavor, Ciara,” he says, trying to recover. Dad gently covers Mom’s eyes with one hand while I take her other hand to the table. We stop right in front of it.

“It is straw—”

“Surprise!” we shout together.

Dad pulls his hand away and leans in to kiss her cheek. Mom opens her eyes and looks at the cake, then at us, and then back at the cake. She smiles, a soft smile that looks like fondness mixed with ‘did you really have to do this?’

Before Mom can even complain, Dad grabs the knife and gently wraps her hand around the handle. He guides her wrist, and together they press down into the cake. I clap along happily, singing the birthday song to keep the rhythm.

Mom cuts a neat slice and feeds it to Dad. He grins, then swipes a bit of frosting onto her nose with his finger. She lets out a surprised laugh as he leans in and licks it off, whispering, “Happy birthday, Ciara.”

I can’t stop myself from giggling at them, “I am still here, moooom,” I sing loudly, grinning at the display.

They both cough at the same time, suddenly remembering my presence. Dad clears his throat and retreats toward their bedroom.

“Come here, Layla,” Mom says, holding out a slice. I step closer and take a bite as she feeds me. I motion for her to bend down, and when she does, I wrap my arms around her neck and kiss her other cheek.

“Happy birthday, Mom.” She smiles and ruffles my hair, right as Dad returns holding a small black box.

“Open it,” he says, handing it to her.

Mom lifts the lid and gasps. Inside is a delicate chain with a golden locket shaped into Dad’s name. Dad pulls something from behind his back, and it is another chain, this one with Mom’s name.

“Thought we could always keep a part of each other,” he says.

They help each other fasten the chains around their necks then they lean in and share a kiss, right there in front of me. I watch them with a full heart, certain that this is what love is supposed to look like.

When they finally pull away and catch me wearing the most ridiculous smile, Mom groans and scoops me up before I can tease them. I squirm in her arms, trying to wriggle free, but she holds me tight. I am pretty sure both of them are embarrassed.

She carries me to my bedroom and flicks on the light. I protest halfheartedly as she sets me on the bed, then smooths the blanket over me and tucks it under my chin. I prop my chin on my hands and watch her walk toward the door. Just before she reaches it, the question slips out.

“Mom, would my friends be jealous if I spend time with someone else?”

She pauses and turns around, one eyebrow lifting, “Why the sudden question?”

“There is a boy in my class,” I say, staring at the pattern on my blanket, “He is quiet. He doesn’t talk to anyone and…”

“You want to be his friend?” she asks.

“I am thinking about it,” I admit. “But my other friends wouldn’t like it, right? Especially Cleon…”

Mom walks back to the bed and sits beside me. She brushes my hair back from my face, “You shouldn’t worry about that. If someone thinks you can only be friends with them, that is not a healthy friendship. You are allowed to be friends with anyone you want, alright, Layla?” I nod. She stands again and smiles down at me, “Good night, sweetheart.” She switches off the light and closes the door behind her.

“Good night, Mom,” I whisper into the dark.

Be friends with anyone you want.

I hug the blanket closer and grin to myself.

Mikhael is going to be my new friend. A friend I choose for myself, not someone introduced through Mom’s connections or her circle of friends.