Page 19 of A Simple Reminder

“Lars, it’s your birthday today,” Aliyah articulates loudly. “We’re here to celebrate you.”

She puts a candle in the cake and lights it up before she looks at me and starts singing Happy Birthday. I join in and now Dad bobs his head to the side to the melody of the song. When we finish, he blows out the candle and clasps his hands, mirroring Aliyah.

“Do you know what cake this is?” she asks him as she cuts him a slice.

He bites down on his lower lip, his brow furrowing slightly in concentration. He gazes up at Aliyah with wide, searching eyes, his expression hesitant yet hopeful. “Kladdkaka,” he finally murmurs, the word emerging slowly as if he’s unraveling a puzzle.

“Yes. Yes, Dad, it’s Kladdkaka, your favorite.” A tear falls down my cheek at the sound of his voice. He remembers.

“Do you know who made it for you?”

God bless Aliyah. This woman is the embodiment of glory.

“No,” my dad answers, his voice distant.

“Your daughter, Sophie. She baked it for you.” Aliyah points at me with a gentle smile, trying to bridge the gap between us.

I smile broadly when Dad looks at me, following the direction of her pointed fingers. But the smile fades as quickly as it came, replaced by tears, because the look on my father’s face is one of utter horror.

His brows furrow deeply, and his pupils flare with panic and confusion. It’s as if he’s seeing a stranger in front of him, someone he can’t place. Someone who shouldn’t be here. His mouth trembles, and he shakes his head, denying the reality.

“No. No. I have no daughter.” He repeats his sentence once, twice, three times. Each repetition feels like a knife twisting in my heart.

“Who are you?” His voice rises with panic, and he starts to push himself up from his chair.

Aliyah moves swiftly to calm him, reassuringly touching his shoulder. I follow suit, hoping my touch will ground him, but as soon as my fingers brush his arm, he jerks suddenly, and I back into the little table with the cake and the pot of forget-me-nots. It topples over with a crash, shattering into pieces on the floor.

My heart sinks as I rush to pick up the broken pieces, my hands trembling uncontrollably. Tears blur my vision, mixing the shards and scattered blue petals.

“It’s okay, Dad,” I whisper.

“I want you to leave,” he demands, his voice strained and distant, lacking the warmth and familiarity I long to hear.

Aliyah leads Dad gently back to his bed before she kneels beside me.

“It’s not your fault, Sophie,” she assures me. “I’ll get this fixed, don’t worry.”

“But I should help,” I say, glancing back at Dad. He’s trembling on the bed, staring at me as if I’m a stranger here to harm him.

Aliyah’s hand rests gently on my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts. “Sophie, maybe it’s best if you go now,” she says softly, her voice filled with understanding. “He needs some rest. But we’ll see you next week.”

I nod reluctantly, the weight of her words sinking in. Staying longer won’t change anything. Slowly, I gather myself, swiping at the tears staining my cheeks as I rise to my feet. I steal one last glance at Dad, my heart heavy with all the unspoken words. “I miss you, Dad,” I manage to say, my voice choked with emotion. I walk to the door slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last. My hand hovers on the handle as I glance back, my gaze lingering on him one final time. Silently, I wish for the strength to let go, even as a part of me aches to stay. Then, with a quiet exhale, I leave.

Giving someone a forget-me-not is a big thing; it’s a promise that they’ll always stay in your thoughts.Sometimes, that promise is enough—even if you’re the only one who can keep it.

TEN

LIAM

The morning sun pierces through the window, blinding me as I squint against its brightness. Five fifty-five. Damn it, I forgot to lower the blinds again. I stretch my body, feeling the stiffness slowly dissipate. Well, since the universe has decided I don’t need sleep, I might as well start the day. Lovely.

When I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror, a bitter laugh slips out. The bruise around my eye has deepened into a spectacular shade of purple, and the cut on my cheek is already scabbing over, and the split lip? Well, that’s just the cherry on top. Stunning. Really. I’m thirty-four years old and look like I stepped out of a low-budget action movie. Shouldn’t I be past getting into fights over a girl? Apparently not. Guess maturity took the day off.But this girl…My jaw tightens as I study the wreckage of my face.She’s worth every bruise, every fight. And I owe her.The thought lingers, heavier than the ache in my face, stubbornly refusing to let go.

I shake my head, scoffing at myself. I’m turning into some tragic hero. This isn’t a movie, and I sure as hell don’t have the face for it anymore.

To today’s problem: how the hell am I supposed to walk into the hotel looking like this? Humiliating doesn’t even cover it. I run a hand over my jaw, my fingers brushing the bruised and tender skin.

Splashing cold water on my face, I let the weekend replay in my head, uninvited. Seeing Sophie again. That man’s hands on her. Her gentle–and not so gentle–touch when she patched me up. It’s all tangled together, leaving me feeling exposed and unsettled. How is it possible that she still has this effect on me after all this time?

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