“Happy birthday.”

Eleanor rolls over, her eyes squinting in the morning sun as she gazes at me. “Happy birthday to you, too,” she mumbles.

I laugh. “That’s not really how it works, but thank you.”

I show her how I’ve laid out her clothes for the day and give her instructions for the morning: get up, go potty, put on clothes, brush teeth, and come downstairs for breakfast. It’s funny, but even though we have been through this routine for three years and she’s been encouraged to act independently, Eleanor still needs to be reminded and each morning is filled with utterances of “Ugh, I forgot!” as she slaps her forehead with the palm of her hand and I remind her to do better next time.

Having woken up early and my own morning routine mostly complete, I head downstairs to start Eleanor’s birthday-themed breakfast. It’s pancakes and bacon. Nothing too unusual or special about them. Usually we’ll have pancakes on the weekend, so it is special—in a birthday sort of way—to have them in the middle of the week.

Upstairs I can hear Eleanor rummaging around. She has probably decided that the outfit I picked out for her wasn’t fancy enough and is picking out a new one. Sure enough a few minutes later she comes downstairs wearing something completely different and much more fanciful.

Eleanor sits at the table, kicking her feet and looking out the window to keep herself occupied as she waits patiently for her breakfast.

“Dad,” she starts.

“Since when am I ‘Dad?’” I ask, cutting her off.

Eleanor tilts her head, giving me a look–the same look her mother used to give me–to say that I’m in trouble.

“Dad,” she says, drawing the word out into multiple syllables, “I’m six now.”

She turns back to looking out the window; distracted, apparently forgetting what she had wanted to say.

At the stove I pour a new pancake, bigger than the rest, and drop blueberries in the shape of the number six. After a while I flip it over, closely monitoring it till it reaches its optimal doneness before turning it onto a plate.

I present the plate to Eleanor with a strip of bacon, a dab of butter, and a splash of maple syrup.

Eleanor looks at it smiling. “Is that a six?” she asks.

“Yes,” I tell her. “Very good.”

“Because I’m six?”

“Yup. Happy birthday.”

I put some pancakes and bacon on my plate and returned to the table.

“How does it feel to be six?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Eleanor responds. “Okay, I guess.”

“Fair enough,” I say and we eat our breakfast in silence.

When breakfast is finished and cleaned-up, our attention turns to getting Eleanor to her kindergarten on time . I pack her lunch and backpack while Eleanor makes another trip to the bathroom. After several reminders to get her shoes on, she’s finally ready to go.

Last night we worked on a birthday poster that’s now tucked in her sparkly unicorn backpack, the last few inches sticking out of it. It’s a list of her favorite things: her favorite song is from a movie musical she’s never seen; her favorite book is a story of a warrior princess and her fat, stubby-legged pony; her favorite color is pink of course, followed closely by purple and black. At the bottom of the poster is a picture of her family: an awkwardly drawn and hardly recognizable image of myself and Veronica with Eleanor between us with her arms drawn coming out of her head. More than likely I’ll hear about it from her teacher later as a sign that she’s developmentally behind the other kids in her class, but who cares. She’s six. She has plenty of years ahead of her to understand where arms sprout from.

Walking through the house to the garage we weave through Eleanor’s latest construction: her house. Her house is made from a few of her favorite things. It isn’t a very discriminate list of favorites; just odds and ends from around the house—toys, household items, and clothes which should have been in the hamper with the other dirty items.

Stolen novel; please report.

These items are placed in the most trippable locations. They are stacked on top of books, in the colander which should be in the kitchen, in an old backpack, or placed in a toy apple-red briefcase. They stretch from the edge of our kitchen, to the hallway leading to the garage, and into our spare bathroom that is now doubling as Eleanor’s house’s living room.

I tried to explain to Eleanor that she shouldn’t have people going to the bathroom in her living room, but she just laughed. Last night I contemplated cleaning the house up, but then realized how angry Eleanor would be with me, so I left it there.

We’re in such a hurry to get out the door that I almost forgot one of the most important parts to her birthday celebration.

“Wait!” I say, stopping her suddenly with a small pull on the back of her backpack

We turn around, weaving between Eleanor’s pretend house back to the living room. I point to a present hidden in the corner. Eleanor gasps, dropping her backpack, and runs towards it ripping off the wrapping paper, not even noticing that the box’s seal was already broken. She reaches in and pulls out a doll.

“What is it?” she asks.

“It’s a doll,” I say. “Do you see her hair and how long it is? You can practice braiding it.”

Eleanor gasps again, hugging the doll to her chest. “I love it so much!” she exclaims. “This is the best gift in the whole wide world!”

The truth is that the doll was meant more for me than for her. The box’s seal was broken, because over the last week, after Eleanor was in bed, I had taken the doll out to practice hair braiding; watching a dozen or so online tutorials until my fingers knew the patterns by heart.

This was me trying to do better.

I have Eleanor sit on the couch and proceed to divide her hair into three separate segments, rolling one on top of the other, forming a loose french braid. I steal one of the ponytail holders included with the doll and finish it off. Carrying her to the downstairs bathroom, I let Eleanor look at it in the mirror. She puts a tentative hand behind her head to feel the braid.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“Just like mommy does,” she says.

I smile. “Alright, let’s get in the car fast, because now we’re really late.”

“But we’re never late,” Eleanor says.

“Yeah, you’re right, but it’s your birthday.”

There’s kindergarten and work and then we’re back home. I’ve invited my parents over and while they keep Eleanor entertained with more new dolls and a collection of other toys, I cook Eleanor one of her favorite meals: spaghetti. It’s not the best flavor to pair with a chocolate cake, but she is the birthday girl, and what six-year-old understands the complexity of various flavor profiles, anyways?

Instead of buying jars of spaghetti sauce from the store, I have on the stove at a low simmer a collection of canned whole plum tomatoes, basil, a ton of garlic, some red wine, and salt. The cake is already in the fridge cooling and I’m already uncomfortably aware that Eleanor is on the path towards a late bedtime, but I’m enjoying cooking from scratch too much to be truly bothered by that fact.

This used to be our thing, Veronica’s and mine: cooking. Since she passed, I would still cook most days of the week, but it was simplified and rushed. Today was the first time in six or so months that I was taking the time and enjoying it. In the recent past, if I was tempted to cook a pasta sauce from scratch, I would have skipped the simmer stage and went straight to plating, convincing myself that however bland it was in the moment, that overnight the flavors would seep into every nook and cranny and be even more delicious the next night for leftovers. Even though Eleanor was too young to appreciate the difference in those flavor profiles, I still hope that she would appreciate the meal and if she doesn’t, I’ll pile on the guilt and shame, making sure I remind her about all the time, energy, and effort I spent until she’s recounting the story years later to her friends or children about the amazing dinner her father made on her sixth birthday.

The noodles are the only thing I don’t cook from scratch. I’ve seen plenty of online demonstrations to appreciate the fine art of pasta making and to come up with a couple dozen reasons why I don’t want a pasta machine in my house.

Soon enough dinner is ready.

We sat at the table, eating and talking. Eleanor, between bites of food, does most of the talking. She’s decided tonight that she’s my neighbor and she calls me by my first name, which coming from her sounds very odd. Her new dolls are her babies. They sit at the table as well, but when I try to strike up a conversation they remain silent. I try to point this out to Eleanor, but she tells me that babies don’t talk, even though they are very clearly disproportionate women in their mid-twenties.

We cut the cake, sing “Happy Birthday,” and we’re back to our usual bedtime routine of bathtime, teeth brushing, and stories. Eleanor’s grandma sits in her room reading while my dad and I clean up in silence, which is our normal routine: just focusing on the task.

As my mom comes down the stairs, I head up to tell Eleanor goodnight. Her eyes are heavy, but still open. I sit on the floor next to her bed. She reaches out, wiggling her fingers, until I take her hand in mind.

“Did you have a good birthday?” I ask.

She nods her head as enthusiastically as her tired little body would allow her.

“I love you,” I tell her. “Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams to you, too,” she says and she rolls over, closing her eyes.