I was 11. I wrote in my diary about my 10th birthday. About how my family didn't really care enough to celebrate it with me and how all I got was a egg-roll (Nigerian). Then I wrote about my 11th birthday, about how we didn't celebrate that either because we were still fresh off the boat and about how it wasn't important. I can't remember how much pain I depicted in that journal entry, but I can imagine it was a lot of deep stuff coming from an 11 year old.
My dad got hold of my journal and read that entry. He didn't tell me that he read it.
One day, he came home and asked me and my brother to get some groceries from the car and that he has a surprise for me. When I saw the cake, I said hmm. Still couldn't guess what was going on. When we brought the orange cake in, my dad called me and told me that he read my diary. I was pissed, but in an African home, privacy does not exist for 11 year olds, but I'm sure you already know that. He said that he didn't know that it hurt me that much and that this cake is meant to celebrate those birthdays.
Today, a decade later, I can remember the taste of that cake. It tastes like love.