They say you should choose your wedding battles, but baking our cake wasn’t negotiable for me. My mother-in-law Christine’s horrified reaction only strengthened my resolve. “People hire professionals for these things, Alice,” she’d sniffed, as if my decade of baking experience meant nothing.
The night before our wedding, I carefully assembled three perfect tiers, each flower piped with love. The reception gasps were everything I’d hoped for – until Christine’s speech. “I simply couldn’t let my son’s wedding have an amateur cake,” she lied, basking in the applause meant for me.
I nearly interrupted, but Dave squeezed my hand. “Wait,” he whispered. His faith was rewarded when Christine called days later in a panic – a society matron wanted “her” to recreate the cake for a charity gala. Hearing her stammer through requests for my recipe was the apology I’d never get.
Now when I deliver cakes to the same circles Christine once dominated, I smile remembering how the truth rose as perfectly as my sponge layers.
