The edges had pink and blue goodies. I served macarons with beautiful color gradients, cupcakes with small gender-neutral question mark picks, and complementary sparkling drinks.
Cake in the center. A tall white confection that held all our hopes and expectations.
Jenny, my sister-in-law, gave birth.
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.
