My family spent three years laughing at me for being a janitor while I quietly sat on $280 million in lottery money. I kept the uniform, the old Corolla, and the basement room because I wanted to know if they loved me without status. Yesterday, they called me a disgrace and kicked me out. Today, I returned in a Bugatti to pick up my boxes—and my father fainted when he saw my face.

I was still living in the basement even though my penthouse overlooking the bay was finished and ready for me.

That afternoon, I decided to bake one last lemon cake from my grandmother’s recipe to give them one more chance.

I went to the prep kitchen and mixed the batter by hand while the smell of lemon filled the small room.

The cake came out with a small crack on the top, but it was warm and real unlike everything else in that house.

I placed it on a white plate and carried it upstairs into the living room that was full of bright lights and guests.

My father saw me and his expression hardened as he asked what I was doing in front of everyone.

“I made a cake for your anniversary,” I said as I stopped in front of them.

My mother looked at the cake with panic in her eyes because it was something inappropriate entering her perfect frame.

“Not now, Julian, because we already have a professional cake,” she whispered while keeping her social smile fixed.

A woman nearby asked if I was her younger son, and my mother touched her arm and said I just wanted to help.

My father reached for my elbow to lead me away, but I did not move from the spot.