The cake had white icing, small sugar question marks, and a fun “Boy or Girl?” topper. It was flawless.
For a brief, glorious moment, I thought we could pass this milestone without drama.
Patricia arrived.
She arrived 20 minutes late in a pink blouse (understated). She air-kissed me with her years-honed performative devotion and then focused on the cake like a heat-seeking missile.
“It’s so tall,” she added, mockingly concerned. Are you sure it’s stable?
Jenny, bless her, kept going. Mom, it’s fine. Personally, I drove it over.”
As I watched her circle the cake like a shark, looking for an area where the color was showing through the icing, I felt that old strain in my shoulders.
It was unbearable. Before she could ruin the occasion, I had to cut that cake.
“Well, let’s get to the main event,” I said, holding Patricia’s arm and leading her away. Gather around!
We gathered around with phones ready to record the moment we’d been waiting for. With knives in hand, Daniel and I positioned ourselves.
Patricia struck as we posed for Jenny’s shots.
“Oh no, let me just move the cake closer to you,” she offered.
I was horrified when she held the cake foundation. One flip of her wrist tilted the cake.
The nicely manicured lawn was covered in frosting and pink layers like a pastry crime scene.
Silence in the yard.
