Elaine’s birthday should have been perfect: her loved ones gathered together, a cake she baked herself, and the comfort of home. But when her daughter ruins dessert in front of everyone, the shocking reason she gives points a shaky finger at someone in the room.
My name is Elaine, and my 35th birthday was supposed to be a warm and joyful evening. I love entertaining. I always have.
There is something comforting about the clutter created by having multiple people in your home.
People crowded around the dining table, plates clinked, voices overlapped, and someone was always laughing too loudly in the corner.
Gold party decorations on a table | Source: Unsplash
Gold party decorations on a table | Source: Unsplash
I like knowing that the people I care about are under the same roof, safe, and well-fed. This year has been no different.
Our house was full. There was Michael, my husband, and our two daughters, Anna-Lee and Sophie. My parents were there, as well as Michael’s. My brother, Joseph, came with his wife, Lisa, and their twins, Timmy and Tara. And even Nora, my oldest friend from high school.
“It smells amazing in here,” my mother said, placing a platter of roasted potatoes on the kitchen counter.
A plate of roasted potatoes | Source: Unsplash
A plate of roasted potatoes | Source: Unsplash
“That’s because I’ve been here all day,” I told him, wiping my hands on a cloth. Michael walked past me to fill the bread basket, brushing the back of my hand as he went.
Thirteen people, all pressed together as if the walls themselves were leaning in to join the party. The smell of rosemary chicken and baked squash wafted through the air; wine glasses caught the flicker of candlelight, and someone had put on an early 2000s playlist that kept pausing to advertise.
“I told you we needed a premium account,” Nora said, laughing from across the table. “Get ready for more ad breaks and jumps.”
A busy person in the kitchen | Source: Unsplash
A busy person in the kitchen | Source: Unsplash
But the highlight of the evening was the cake.
It was a two-tiered vanilla cake topped with a creamy cream cheese frosting and topped with a generous amount of fresh berries. It was the kind of cake that looked like it came straight out of a magazine, even though it was made in my slightly messy kitchen.
I had made the sponge cake myself that morning, getting up before the children, measuring and mixing the batter in a house still deep in sleep. The silent gesture seemed like an act of love… the gentle hum of the mixer, the warm scent of vanilla filling the air.
A sponge cake baked in a baking tray | Source: Unsplash
A sponge cake baked in a baking tray | Source: Unsplash
After a while, Sophie dragged herself to the kitchen, sleep still clinging to her.
“I want to help you, Mom,” she said. “I heard the blender.”
Her little arms struggled to wield the wooden spoon, but I let her. Because that’s what birthdays were all about. Little hands, messy countertops, stolen cake batter… that was the memory.
I left the cooled layers wrapped in plastic wrap on the counter until late afternoon. Just before dinner, I frosted them, smoothing the creamy swirls under the warm kitchen lights, while Sophie and Anna-Lee perched nearby, occasionally stealing a berry.
A person making icing | Source: Pexels
A person making icing | Source: Pexels
Michael called from the dining room, asking me to help him move extra chairs around the table. I left, leaving the unfinished cake on its stand in the center of the island. I knew my mother would step in to finish decorating.
At the time, it didn’t even occur to me to worry.
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