I hadn’t heard from my stepdaughter, Hyacinth, in what felt like forever. So, when she called and asked me to dinner, I thought maybe this was the moment we’d finally patch things up. I’m Rufus, fifty, and my life runs quiet—office job, small house, evenings with a book or the late news. I don’t ask for much, but I’d always hoped for some version of family with Hyacinth, even if we never quite clicked after I married her mother, Lilith, when Hyacinth was still a prickly teenager.

The restaurant she picked was fancier than anything I’d choose for myself—dark wood, low lighting, waiters in starched shirts. She was already there when I arrived, smiling in a way that didn’t reach her eyes. “Hey, Rufus! You made it,” she chirped, waving me into the seat across from her. She kept glancing at her phone, then the door, then the menu, talking in light, quick bursts that never settled on one thing long enough to be real.

“How’ve you been?” I asked, trying for something honest. “Good, good. You?” she didn’t wait for the answer. “We’ll do the lobster and the steak,” she told the waiter, as if we’d discussed it. I let it go. If this was the price of a truce, so be it.

I tried to bridge the silence. “It’s been a while. I’ve missed you.” “Mm,” she said, eyes back on her plate. “Busy.”

When the check came, I reached for it automatically. She leaned toward the waiter and whispered something I couldn’t catch, then rose with a quick smile. “Be right back. Restroom.” Minutes stretched. The waiter hovered. The total made my stomach dip—too much for a night of half-sentences and sidelong glances. Still, I slid my card across. Disappointment hurt more than the bill ever could.

I tucked my receipt into my wallet and headed for the door. That’s when I heard a clatter behind me and turned. Hyacinth stood there cradling an enormous cake, a knot of balloons bobbing above her head, her grin big and uncertain all at once. The cake was iced in pink and blue swirls. Across the top, in loopy frosting, it said: CONGRATS, GRANDPA!