At a young age, Joy discovered that she had a miraculous power: she could make anyone happy just by pointing at them.

When her best friend was crying because of a low score on an exam, Joy pointed at her.

Joy explained to her friend that there were more exams to take, and extra credit assignments, too. There was ample time to study and get a good final grade, Joy said, and she was sure her friend was more than capable of it. The friend had soon stopped crying, and agreed that it wasn’t quite the end of the world she had envisaged.

Once at a coffee shop, Joy noticed that one of the baristas was sullen. The man was so unfocused that he got her order wrong, and when she brought it to his attention he sighed dejectedly and his shoulders slumped as if he bore a great weight. She pointed at him.

Joy told the barista that although she didn’t know what he was going through, she was confident that things would get better with time, no matter how bad they seemed at the moment. The sudden support caught him off-guard, and as he handed her the corrected order, he was smiling.

Over and over throughout the years, she helped friends and family, colleagues and strangers, brightening any room she walked into.

And when she was down, she would stand in front of the mirror and point at herself.

Joy would try thinking positive thoughts, like ‘I’ll get in shape someday’, ‘I’ll pay off my debts somehow’, or ‘I’ll meet and fall in love with someone again soon’. She would try, over and over.

Point, point, point.

But it wouldn’t work.

Joy discovered that she had the miraculous power to make anyone happy just by pointing at them. Anyone but herself.

John was sitting on the couch reading a book, but it was that kind of distracted reading where your eyes roam the page without absorbing any of the words. After several false starts, he sighed and rubbed his forehead.

That was when Amy, his 4-year-old daughter, came running up to him.

“Daddy, daddy, I want to bake a cake!”

John rested the book on his lap and smiled at her.

“Do you now?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. She jumped up and down, her pigtails bobbing. “Can we can we?”

“Sure, sweetheart. What kind of cake do you want to bake?”

“A chocolate cake!”

“A chocolate cake it is.”

John put the book down on the coffee table, next to the vase with a white lily, and went to the kitchen with his daughter.

It had been a while since John had last baked a cake, so he fetched his tablet and found a recipe online. Amy pattered around the kitchen, giddy with anticipation, while her father checked the fridge and the pantry for the ingredients.

John turned on the oven to pre-heat it. He and Amy then set about greasing and flouring the baking pan. The little girl accidentally got flour on her hands and scratched her nose. She sneezed, sending up a cloud of white, and laughed herself silly. Despite the mess, John found himself laughing, as well.

They took turns adding and stirring the sugar, cocoa, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl. John cracked the eggs and Amy poured the milk (after having a small sip), then came the oil and the vanilla. They put it all in the mixer and turned it on at medium speed. The thing started to take form.

“So what made you want to bake a cake, sweetheart?” John asked. “That sweet tooth of yours?”

“Oh, it’s not for me, daddy,” Amy answered, staring intently at the swirling concoction, “it’s for mommy.”

John’s breath caught.

“Mommy said she wanted to eat chocolate cake,” Amy continued, “but she’s always so busy so she keeps forgetting to make one. I know you said she went away, but I want to make it so it’s ready for when she comes back. Then we can all eat it together.”

Amy looked up at her father. She frowned.

“Why are you crying, daddy?”