The request was simple. Mom, could you save a piece of my birthday cake for Dad? Knowing better, my mom took out a knife, sliced a piece, and set it on a plate. She put it in the cabinet with the rest of the plates and tableware. And I, as happens with most 6-year olds, quickly switched my focus to something else.

The cabinet doors were wood with glass panes, so every time my mom walked by she I could see the cake. She knew it would not be eaten as my father was no longer eating solid foods. She knew even if he could physically stomach the cake, his brain had been so assaulted by cancer that it would not register the fact that he was eating birthday cake. And he would not enjoy it either.

I would walk by, catch sight of the cake still sitting in the cabinet and ask my mom why Dad had not eaten it. For a few days she offered up some reason or another. Until it got to the point where the cake was moving quickly toward the degree of staleness that it could quite possibly take on a life of its own and climb out of the cabinet. She said it would have to be thrown away.

I did not understand why. I did not understand why he did not eat it. I did not understand why I was unable to make him happy. There was a lot in the coming months that I did not understand.

According to my mom, a few weeks after the funeral I inquired about when Dad was coming back from his work trip. Granted I am not the brightest bulb, but I credit the confusion to my mind taking the initiative to protect the heart. Rather than processing the reality that my dad had died, my mind created phantom realities. Akin to the phantom pain that amputees experience after they lose a limb, I still felt as if he were still alive.

Needless to say, it was not long after that exchange that I realized he was not coming home. While many years have passed – just how many I shall leave unmentioned – I recognize that I am still waiting for him to eat that piece of cake. Not literally, of course. Just as my mother knew that my father was incapable of responding to my gesture, I know that my father cannot respond with approval or praise (or disappointment). No matter how hard I strive to make him proud, I know that pride can never be expressed. I know that I can never live up to the dreams he had for me. And that pain is not a phantom pain.

But what I also know is that like the piece of birthday cake, the desire to please him, to receive his approval, needs to be placed in the trash. The truth is that the phantom reality that my mind created to protect my heart as a child will only harm it as an adult. Time to blow out the candles.