Chapter 1: The Birthday Wish That Broke Us

My daughter was turning eighteen. Hard to believe, honestly.

There was this electric, jittery feeling in the house—the kind you only get on big birthdays. Balloons floated in the corners, and the sweet scent of vanilla cake drifted in from the kitchen. The air felt thick with possibility—just for today, at least.

She made a wish for her grandparents to live long, healthy lives. That was her wish. Simple, but it made her grandparents smile.

She stood in front of the cake, eyes squeezed tight; her voice was sweet, but she didn’t hesitate.

She wished her mom would always stay beautiful.

Her mom laughed, shaking her head, but you could tell she loved it. There was pride in the way she tossed her hair. The kind you get when your kid says you’re the prettiest woman in the world.

When it was my turn, I looked at her, breath caught.

I remember the way I held my breath, waiting—hoping she’d say something nice, just this once. The pause stretched, and for a second, everyone turned toward me.

She knew what I wanted—just for everyone to be healthy.

She smirked a little, like I was asking for something boring, something that didn’t matter. I saw that teenage look that says, "Can we just get this over with?"

She just rolled her eyes. Typical.

Her expression said it all. Like I was the punchline to some tired family joke. She didn’t even bother to hide it.

"I hope you two hurry up and get divorced—and Dad, stay far away from us."

The words dropped like a stone in the middle of the room. Even the candles seemed to shiver. For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

I just stood there.

A cold shock hit my chest, spreading to my fingertips. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I just stared at her, wondering if I’d misheard.

My wife laughed, loud and sharp. "Serves you right for always being so strict with her. You had it coming!"

She tossed her head back, letting the laughter ring out, but there was a sharpness to it—a kind of satisfaction that made my skin prickle. Her parents joined in, chuckling like they were in on the joke.

Later, my daughter moved to the States and packed up everyone—except me.

It happened so fast. Like someone just erased me from the family photo. I watched them pack up, suitcases lined by the door, passports in hand. I stood by, invisible, as they made plans that didn’t include me.

When I begged her, she pulled away from me.

I reached out, desperate, but she pulled away like she couldn’t stand to be near me. The look she gave me was colder than any winter I’d ever known.

"I've already found Mom someone better. Don't mess this up."

Her voice was clipped. Final. She didn’t even look back.

In the end, I died alone in a cramped little apartment with peeling walls.

Yellowed walls. A rattling heater. The only company, the hum of the fridge. My life shrank to a handful of rooms and the echo of old memories.