Chapter 1, Part 4 - In Dad's Dream

"Did your mother send you to buy something?"
"Yes, it was such a chore. I'd rather never do it again."

I see him start to smile. Who am I talking about? My father, of course.

Before going back home, I decided to stop by my parents' café/bakery. I'm not the biggest sweets eater, but one thing is certain: everything here is delicious. I'm not saying this out of family loyalty — I'm not praising them just because they're my parents — but because I see so many people complimenting them that it really does seem like this is the best pastry shop in the world.

My father loves making cakes, and he has been following this passion ever since he was a child. Sometimes he repeats that he started working when he was about my age.
I can't imagine myself in the same situation.

And yet maybe that effort can never truly blossom. We live in a "remote" village, so those products can't really spread very far. I wish the existence of this pastry shop could be discovered by the whole world; if the wind could carry the news, it might even reach someone willing to travel miles just to eat something they consider extraordinary.

This place is ours — it belongs to our family — and that means it could end up in my hands, as an only child. Running a business? How do you even do that? What if I ended up piling up hundreds of debts? And then I'd also have to be extremely careful with all the food-related deliveries.

I realize how difficult it is, how determined and attentive one must be to maintain a structure like this. By "structure" I mean something like those pyramids you see in books, divided into levels, like when they explained how Egyptian society worked at school: slaves at the bottom, then the rest. I mean that within this pyramid there are countless roles, from the most important to the least important, all requiring the same precision. If even one of them cracked, everything could collapse very quickly.

Sometimes people have asked me whether I'm interested in pastries too, in building cakes with beautiful, colorful structures that feed not only the stomach but also the eyes. As usual, I answered with an "I don't know", the typical words I use even for the dumbest things, because I can't make up my mind about anything, not even what to eat for lunch or dinner.

Even so, I remember a few times when I helped him — not with difficult things, but with very easy ones — so that I could at least let him save a little time.

"Really? You're that tired? And what should I say? I wake up every day at four in the morning."
"Those are just details. Details."
"Oh, sure. Details like sleep, for example."
"Sleep is overrated."
"Well then, I want to see you stand on your feet without your usual eight hours."

I lean on the counter and watch the lab behind him. Everything is clean and tidy, with an order that doesn't feel sterile but lived-in: freshly washed bowls drying, a spatula resting crookedly, a little flour left on the edge of a table as if someone had forgotten it there.

Everything is so orderly here... why isn't it the same at home? Mom would breathe a sigh of relief if she found this kind of cleanliness in our house.

"Anyway," he says, "what's in that bag?"
"The fruit I bought: apples, bananas, and strawberries. I would've preferred she sent me to buy something tastier, if I had to go out."

My father's eyes light up, and in less than a second he takes the bag from my hands. Okay, I didn't have a firm grip, but it was far too easy — has he unlocked some kind of superpower?

"What do you want to do?"

He sets the contents on the counter with a satisfied smile; it looks like he has an idea — I hope it's a calm one. The only real danger would be angering the clean-obsession demon, also known as Mom.

"Just what I needed. I baked some little tarts earlier with a bit of custard on top, but when I looked at them I felt something was missing, so I thought of adding a little fruit. Only I didn't have any. Luckily my daughter came to save me."

"You can't do that. I don't know what she needs it for, but that fruit is for Mom. If I go home empty-handed she'll turn into a fury."

He chuckles softly while picking up a strawberry and cutting it carefully, as if handling something extremely delicate. His hands move with a confidence that strikes me every time: no rush, no hesitation.

"I'll take that risk — and I won't use all of it. Just a few pieces."

"Are you sure? I don't want to hear her yelling tonight... not again for the hundredth time."

I don't know if it's fair to talk about Mom this way when she can't fight back. I'm not insulting her or hating her — I'm just trying to keep peace at home, even for her own good. Every time she gets angry it could harm her own body: stress doesn't lead to anything good, and we've already seen that.
I clearly remember the times she didn't feel well, and I truly hope it doesn't happen again.

"Your mother may be a bit of a pain," he says, "but she's certainly not a monster. I don't even know what goes on in her head, but I believe there's a reason she behaves that way. And don't forget that she loves both of us very much, even if she only shows it sometimes."

"Yes, I know. I'd never doubt that."

He arranges the fruit pieces on the tarts one by one: a strawberry here, a slice of banana there, a little rose of lightly caramelized apple on the one with the glossiest cream. They're small things, but they make all the difference. The tarts, which were just... good before, now look special.

"See?" he says, pointing at the tray. "It's not that something was missing. It's that things can always be improved."

He takes one and hands it to me.
"Go on. What are you waiting for? Taste it."

I don't see any reason to hesitate. I've eaten these tarts before, and the only addition is a few tiny bits of fruit, which I doubt could kill me.
I take it and bite into it — not too small, not too big.
I chew.
And...
...damn.
It's really good.

I already knew it — after all, they were made by my father, the best pastry chef in the whole village. Now he's watching me with a small smile, not saying a word. Um... I don't know if I like being stared at for so many seconds...

"Don't look at me like that," I mutter.
"Like what?"
"So satisfied, like you've just won the most prestigious prize in the world."

"Of course I am. This is the work I've always loved, and now it's not just about creating delicious food, but also about making you happy — because I only need to look at your face to know you liked it."

"Yes. It's really good."

"I know. Now I have to go make a birthday cake, and I need to hurry or I won't finish in time."

"Then I'll go home. See you later."

He nods. "Zip up your jacket, it's cold."

That's the last thing he says before going back into his magical world.

Both Mom and Dad pay a lot of attention to these things: when I should wear gloves, a wool hat, and all the rest. Often, if it weren't for Mom reminding me, I'd forget to fix my hair after waking up and go out looking like a Super Saiyan.

When I was born I received a sort of royal title: Daddy's princess.

I pick up the bag of fruit again and head toward the exit. I can't wait to get home and relax in my room, especially because tomorrow there's school and I absolutely have to enjoy the time I have left.

That title never gave me power, fame, or wealth, only a lot of love: the kind that's hard to find in other people.

It lets me remember so many moments: all the times my father sang me lullabies to make me fall asleep — and I still remember one of them. I could never forget its name.

"Brother Martin, bell ringer,
what are you doing? Don't sleep!
Ring the morning bells, ring the morning bells,
ding, dong, dang, ding, dong, dang,
ring the morning bells, ding, dong, dang!"

I also remember all the times imaginary figures were mentioned when I misbehaved — the big bad wolf, or the bogeyman (a man made entirely of shadow). In the end I had to surrender to these possible beings: if they really existed, they would have kidnapped me!

The times he held me in his arms, the times we jumped on the bed together — moments that didn't belong only to me, but to him too.

Of course I've had many beautiful moments with Mom as well, even if I've often heard people say that parents have a sort of preference: mothers for their sons and fathers for their daughters. I don't know if it's true, and I don't know if this feeling could grow in me too, when and if I become a mother.

But wait — I don't mean that parents truly prefer one child over another. It's just something people say. Nothing more.