When I told my mother-in-law that I intended to bake our wedding cake myself, she laughed so loudly I could almost feel it echoing in my chest.
“You? Baking your own cake? What is this, some kind of casual event?” she snickered.
And then, with that ever-present condescending tone, she added,
“Guess when you grow up without much, you hold on to the little things.”
This woman has never lifted a finger in a day’s work. She strolls into the salon each week in nothing less than high-end designer clothes, dismissing places like Target as “just some warehouse.”
Her husband spoils her with a life of luxury, while my fiancé has always refused his father’s money. When he lost his job just three months before our wedding, we promised one thing: no debt, no handouts. We would make it on our own.
So I decided to take on the challenge and bake the cake myself.
Three layers of vanilla cake, raspberry filling, buttercream frosting, adorned with sugar flowers made by hand. It was gorgeous. Our guests were impressed, and even the venue staff said it looked like something from a professional bakery.
Then came the speeches.
My mother-in-law, glimmering in her second gown of the night, grabbed the mic and announced,
“Well, of course, I had to make sure the cake was up to par. I couldn’t let my son have something… subpar for such an important occasion.”
She chuckled. The room clapped. I froze, my fork held motionless in my hand. She was taking credit for my work.
I stood, ready to speak up… but the universe was already working its magic.
Within moments, three guests walked over to her.
