Aiko: Icing on the Cake

Growing up, I used to enjoy cooking, a lot more than I do now. It wasn't just a hobby but something I truly loved. Maybe because I did it with my dad. He owned a restaurant, and we’d often spend time coming up with new recipes together. Granted, most of my ideas didn’t make the cut, but I still had fun. I always tried to think outside the box to create something new and exciting. And, well... they were new and exciting, all right.

When we weren’t experimenting, Dad helped me practice cooking. We would spend countless hours and days trying to perfect our skills. We tried everything: any cuisine, flavor, technique, or recipe. We even tried baking once, even though it wasn’t our strong suit. Either way, not matter what we did, I always had fun. I loved all my memories in the kitchen with him. Until...

One night, we were testing out another idea when we ran out of ingredients. I begged my dad to run to the store, but Mom wasn’t having it. It was late, and she had every reason to be cautious. But I was persistent, stubborn even.

“Dad pleaaaase. Do it for me?” I looked up at him with my best puppy dog eyes. I knew that my mom would immediately say no to me so I had to win Dad over.

“Don’t let her fool you, sweetie,” Mom warned. “And Aiko, don’t be a spoiled brat. It’s late. Just clean up and go to bed.”

“But Mom! We already started, might as well finish. And who knows, this could be something amazing.”

“You said that about all your other messes.”

“Messes…” I pouted. What she said was blunt but honest. Still though, it hurt. “I mean… this one could be the one.”

Dad gently placed his hand on my head and ruffled my hair. He probably noticed how down I was after what Mom said. “Don’t worry about it, honey. I'm sure it won't be too much of a problem for me to get those ingredients. Plus, Aiko here is begging me to go to the store. How can I say no to a face like that?” When I looked up, I was met with his smile. Any time Mom would say something mean, Dad would always know how to cheer me up.

Now that Dad was on my side, I joined in. “Yeah, Mommy, pleaaase.” Mom always had a soft spot for him. Strict or not, she wasn’t heartless.

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Fine. But be careful, okay?”

“Yes ma’am!” we both said in unison. I grinned at Dad, and we laughed. “Let’s go right now Dad. Before the store closes.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for you to be going out?”

“But Mom said it was fine for me to go too.”

Dad turned to her. “Did you say Aiko could come?”

“Nope. only you.”

“But dad—”

“But what?” he grinned.

Honestly I had no way to convince him to let me tag along. But I had to come up with something, so I just said the first thing that came to mind. “Uh w-what if a mugger attacks you? Who’ll be there to defend you if I don’t come along?”

“Or he can just stay home.” mom added. I looked at her with the corner of my eye, annoyed that she was still trying to talk him out of going.

Dad burst out laughing. “I think you’re a little too tiny to take on a mugger. But I appreciate the thought.”

“Aw man.”

“Don't worry, I’ll be home in a flash. Just don’t burn the kitchen down while I’m gone.”

He used to always say that whenever he left me alone in the kitchen. Every time he did, I’d get so annoyed. But now—I miss it. “I only did that once! You don’t have to keep bringing it up Dad!” 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. To make it up to you, I’ll get the ingredients. Deal?”

“Deal! Come back soon!”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, giving a salute. He always looked silly doing that, but it made me laugh every time.

I waited by the front door, ready to drag him straight into the kitchen the moment he got back. A few hours passed, and I began to worry. He usually only took about an hour—mostly because he'd get sidetracked. But this? This was different. Even if I was worried, all I could do was wait.

Every ten minutes or so, Mom would shout from her room, “Is he back yet?” She never joined me by the door though. I think she was trying to hide the fact that she was worried. 

Seconds, then minutes, then hours went by. I waited and waited, until I fell asleep.

That morning, my mother shook me awake. Her face was pale. Without a word, she grabbed me and pulled me into the car. We immediately drove off.

“Mommy… where are we going?” I asked while rubbing my eyes. “Where’s Daddy?”

She didn’t answer. She just drove, eyes locked on the road, jaw clenched. All I could do was stare out the window.  It was around six, so the sun hadn’t fully come up. As we drove, I saw a man with a bushy beard and a colorful scarf. A woman in a ridiculously large hat. A clown with a red nose. I wondered if they were headed to work at a circus. Kind of silly right? Thinking about clowns and circuses at a time like that. But it was odd, I still remember that morning like it happened yesterday. Every color, every face outside the car window, burned into my memory.

Eventually, we pulled into a hospital parking lot. The lot with mostly empty, with just three cars. It made me think that there was only three other people at the hospital. The moment the car stopped, Mom unbuckled and stormed out. I remember how hard she slammed the door. It was loud. It was scary. I looked out the window and saw she’d already put some distance between us. Panicked, I scrambled out and ran after her. My legs were too short; I couldn’t keep up. She turned, grabbed my arm, and yanked me forward. “Mom, that hurts.”

“Shut it!” she snapped. “This is nothing compared to what you put him through.”

When we reached the front desk, Mom asked for something, but I wasn’t listening. My eyes wandered instead. The hospital was nearly empty. It made sense, it was still early, and I remembered there were only three cars outside. “Maybe everyone’s just sleeping. Maybe Dad is too,” I thought.

“Room 225. Got it. Thank you,” Mom muttered. Then she grabbed my arm again, even tighter this time. “Aiko. Let’s go.”

She didn’t run this time. Just walked fast, dragging me behind her like a leash on a wandering dog. My shoulder ached, but I was too scared to complain.

When we got to the room, I saw him. Dad was lying still. His eyes were shut. “Hey, Daddy,” I whispered, gripping my shirt. “Me and Mommy are here. Can you tell us you’re okay so Mommy stops worrying?” No answer. In a panic, my eyes bounced around the room. I looked at the machines and wires around him and felt my stomach twist. Grandma was crying. Grandpa wasn’t saying anything. I stepped closer. "Daddy... why are you still sleeping? Everyone is here to see you.’”

A doctor leaned over to me, “Your daddy’s just resting.” he said. “Please give him some time, okay?”

“You promise me he’ll be okay?”

“Y-yeah. I promise.” His voice was weak. He didn’t even make eye contact. He was lying. Looking back now, I can’t believe I fell for such an obvious lie. Maybe I just wanted to believe that he was alive.”

The doctor took me to the lobby. I heard quiet sobs before we even turned the corner. Then one voice broke through, loud and raw. Three people were huddled together. Probably a family. One of them was a little boy; he was crying the hardest. I figured they’d lost someone. I felt bad for them. But, funny enough, I was in the same boat. The boy wasn’t as naive as me, though. Not dumb enough to believe the doctor’s lie. I must’ve been staring, because the doctor told me it was rude to do so. So I just sat at a chair. Far away from all of their crying.

A moment later, I heard a shriek from inside. It raw and full of pain. It was my mother. I didn’t understand much as a child, but I wasn’t stupid. From her reaction and my dad's condition, I could put two and two together. He'd died.

Without even realizing it, my vision blurred with tears. I started gasping for air, as if I was drowning. My chest ached like there was a hole punched through it, making it even harder to breathe. I cried and cried, choking on every breath. No one held me. No one told me it was going to be okay. But I didn't expect anyone to come. After all, there were only three other people at the hospital.

I don’t know how long I sat there crying for. But eventually, the door creaked open and my mother stepped out. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tears still trailing down her face. But when she looked at me, something changed. A cold rage took over.

“Let’s go,” she mumbled. She looked at me like I was something she didn’t recognize. I froze. Her eyes were empty, like there was nothing human left behind them. As if the very sight of me had taken it all away.

“I-is dad—”

“Shut your mouth!” she snapped. Her voice cut like a blade. I didn’t need that, not from my mother. Not after crying to myself until my eyes went dry. I needed comfort. I needed love. But nothing came, and the weight of everything crashed down on me. My legs gave out, and I collapsed to the floor, clinging to her leg, sobbing.

“Where’s daddy?! Why isn’t he with us?!” She froze. I could feel the panic rising in my chest as the tears came harder. I screamed, flailed, and kicked the floor—everything a kid does when they don’t understand what’s happening. If this were in a supermarket, people would’ve called me a hell-spawn for sure.

Suddenly, my mother grabbed onto my shoulders. “He's not here... because of you!”

“W-what?”

She didn’t explain. Just yanked my arm and dragged me along with her. Her grip was tight and painful. She dragged me to the car. We sat in silence the whole ride home.

Like before, all I could do was stare out the window. The sun was out now. The streets were quiet, everyone was probably already at work and going on with their lives. At a red light, I saw a beggar in a red beanie and thick coat, holding out a cup and shaking it gently. One man, dressed like he was heading to a boardroom, dropped a twenty into the cup. The beggar lit up like he’d been handed the world. In that moment, I envied him.

When we got home, she locked the car doors before I could get out. Her hands were clenched on the steering wheel, her head bowed. Then, she finally spoke. “You know,” she muttered, “this is your fault.”

“W-what?”

“If you hadn’t been such a spoiled brat, your father would still be alive…”

I still didn’t understand what she was talking about. “I-I—”

“Shut your damn mouth!” she screamed. “This could’ve all been avoided if you just listened!” She started sobbing again. The words barely came out. “I told both of you to go to sleep. I told you not to go out for ingredients. But you wouldn’t listen.”

Her voice trembled. “You killed my husband.”

She didn’t talk to me for a week. At the time, I didn’t know why. Every time I would feel sad, I would try to get comfort from my mother. At first, I kept trying to get comfort from her. I'd cry and reach for a hug, and she’d push me away. The more I tried, the angrier she got. And eventually…

“Get your filthy hands off of me!”

“Mommy, please! Please don’t ignore me!” I begged. I cried. I pleaded. Nothing worked.

She shoved me to the ground. “I don’t want anything to do with you. If I had the choice, I’d trade you for him.”

“B-but, what did I do…”

Her face twisted in rage. “You don’t know?” she whispered. She stepped toward me—slow, almost zombie-like. Her body swayed with each movement. I froze. The sight of her moving like this prevented me from moving. It was like I was about to feel all the anger and hatred she’s been feeling. But some instinct made me try to crawl away. But I was facing her, and I couldn’t move fast enough. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me up.

Her face, I remember all the emotions I caused her to feel. I remember the pain. I remember her fury. I remember how sad I made her.

She leaned down, close to my ear. “You killed him.” Then she let go. I fell to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. I didn’t even know why. I just knew I had to say it. “Please don’t go away. I miss you. I miss Daddy.”

“Don’t talk about him,” she said, walking away.

“How can I show I’m sorry?”

“Wipe those tears off your face. You’re not the one in pain. You don’t deserve to cry.”

At the funeral, I finally learned the truth. He died saving someone, an old woman being attacked in the parking lot. He stepped in. He stopped the mugger. And he was killed for it.

On the way home, my mother said to me, “Remember, you’re the one who made him go out that night.”

With those words, it finally hit me. All the times my mother blamed me for his death… she was right. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I clenched my fists and bit down hard. I had to hold these tears in. I had no right to cry. After all I was the one who killed my dad, what right do I have to be sad.