“Cranberry spice,” I said. “Mascarpone frosting. I, uh, made it from scratch.”

She let out a short, dry laugh that never reached her eyes. “You and your theatrics, huh?” she muttered, more to herself than to me.

Then she took the cake from my hands without even really looking at me, walked to the far corner of the living room where Max, their golden retriever, lay curled on his bed, flipped open the lid, and set the entire thing down on the floor.

“At least he’ll enjoy it,” she said.

Max sniffed the frosting once, then started licking it enthusiastically, his tail thumping against the wall. The cake I’d spent hours making—candied orange peel, three layers, careful piping—disappeared under a dog’s tongue while my parents watched like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t ask why they couldn’t just put it on the table like every other normal family. I felt my throat tighten, felt heat behind my eyes, but I refused to let the tears win.