I had a checklist of every detail I’d need to control to make it Patricia-proof. It had to be small, too, so I could do all the planning and much of the work myself.
I sighed as I lay in bed one night, thinking about everything that could go wrong.
“It would be easier to just not invite her,” I remarked to Daniel.
“She means well,” Daniel said, his hand finding mine, our fingers intertwining. “Let’s give her a chance. She won’t ruin something as sweet and simple as a cake-cutting.”
My husband. Always the optimist. Always believing the best in people, even when those people have a documented history of spectacular, breathtaking sabotage.
The backyard that afternoon was a masterpiece of carefully curated celebration.
Jenny hurried away and returned moments later with another cake box.
Patricia’s face went from smug to pale in less than a second. “What’s the meaning of this, Jenny?”
“It’s simple, Mom. I overheard you on the phone with Donna,” Jenny said loudly. “You said you ‘weren’t going to let a cake steal the spotlight’ and joked that an ‘accidental elbow’ would save the day.”
The yard was so quiet you could hear the distant chirp of sparrows. Daniel squeezed my hand, his warmth a steady anchor in this whirlwind of family drama.
Turns out, Jenny had been one step ahead the entire time. She’d commissioned two identical cakes from the bakery, keeping the real one safely out of Patricia’s reach.
The cake that had just splattered across our lawn was nothing more than a decoy.
Patricia didn’t even attempt to deny it.
She muttered something about being “misunderstood” and stormed out, her pink blouse now splattered with buttercream and cake crumbs.
When we finally cut the real cake, the bright blue layers revealed our secret. It’s a boy. Our boy.
The backyard erupted in cheers and confetti.
Confetti in the air | Source: Pexels
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