Micah’s second birthday was supposed to be joyful. I’d decorated since dawn—balloons, streamers, hand-taped cartoon animals. Scarlett? Slept till ten, barely looked my way.

Still, I hoped for peace. One good day.

But during the party, Scarlett laughed too loudly at her brother’s new Audi and then sneered, “At least my ex made real money,” loud enough for everyone to hear.

The room fell silent. I stood frozen, humiliated.

Then my mom stood up.

“Scarlett,” she said, voice cold, “you might want to sit.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes.

“You pawned the earrings I gave you. You stole from my purse. You drained the joint account for your shopping addiction—he found out months ago but said nothing.”

Scarlett went pale.

“And your ‘rich’ ex? He begged my son for a job. His company’s gone under.”

Gasps. My heart pounded.

I stepped forward. “Micah’s name is spelled M-I-C-A-H. Maybe remember that next time you bake a cake.”

Scarlett stormed out, slamming the door.

She sat in her car, fuming, telling herself she was the victim. That we cared more about names and cakes than image and pride.

But the next day, I filed for divorce.

I kept the house, my business, and—most importantly—Micah.

Scarlett vanished from our lives, bitter and angry.

But Micah? He laughed at the homemade cakes and sang off-key. He didn’t need luxury. He needed love.

And I finally gave it to him—without apologies, expectations, or silk robes.

Just a dad who showed up. Every single day.