Eat That Rubbish Yourself: How My Sister Humiliated Me Over Someone Else’s Cake
Emily had carefully styled her hair, slipped into her best dress, and spritzed on just enough perfume before heading to her older sister Victoria’s birthday party. She carried a neat cake box, hoping it might soften the tension between them. Climbing to the fifth floor, she rang the bell twice. The door swung open, and Victoria—radiant in a new silk dressing gown, curls perfectly set—clapped her hands.
“Is that for me? Happy birthday to me, I suppose?”
“Of course it’s for you,” Emily said calmly, handing over the box.
Victoria took it eagerly, lifted the lid, and peered inside. Her face flickered from delight to suspicion.
“Did you bake this yourself?”
“Well, yes,” Emily smiled, hesitating just a fraction.
“Really?” Victoria frowned, turning the box in her hands. “What’s in it?”
“Shall we dissect the recipe, or join your guests?” Emily tried to deflect.
But it was too late. Victoria smelled a rat—and rightly so. Three days earlier, she’d called Emily in tears:
“I broke a nail and rowed with Oliver. I’m canceling the party—no cake, nothing!”
Emily took the news in stride and booked a last-minute order for a regular client. Then, at lunchtime today, Victoria called again:
“We’ve made up! He bought me a gold bracelet! Be here by seven—and bring a cake!”
“You canceled everything…” Emily stammered.
“Don’t be difficult! You’re a pastry chef—prove yourself!”
Emily explained that cakes don’t materialize in six hours, but Victoria insisted. Desperate, Emily rang their mother:
“Is it really so hard to do something nice for your own sister?” came the reply.
Realising no help would come, Emily improvised: she bought an unsold cake from a small-time baker, Beatrice. It looked decent enough. The gesture was what mattered. But Victoria saw through it instantly.
“Beatrice, come here!” she called toward the kitchen.
Out walked a long-haired brunette Emily recognised immediately.
“Is this your cake?” Victoria asked icily.
“Mine. She bought it from me. So, this is your famous pastry-chef sister?” Beatrice smirked.
Emily froze. The guests fell silent. Victoria, lips pressed tight, ripped off the lid, scooped frosting with her finger—and flung it straight into Emily’s face.
“Eat that rubbish yourself!” she hissed. “Couldn’t even bother making something original. Get out!”
Emily was shoved out the door, Beatrice hot on her heels, who delivered a colourful parting gesture before storming off.
Outside, wiping her face with wet wipes, Emily checked her phone to dozens of messages from their mother:
“Disgracing the family! Lying to your own sister! Have you no shame?”
She didn’t reply. Just locked her phone. But it wasn’t over.
The next morning, Victoria’s social media post went live: “Never trust family—she passed off a shop-bought cake as her own. Mortifying.”
Emily cried half the day. Then—she pulled herself together. Not for them. For herself. That day, she swore: no more cakes for family. No more goodwill for those who’d trample it in an instant.
And for the first time in ages, she felt lighter. Because from now on, her life would hold only what was truly sweet. No fakes. No hypocrisy. And—most importantly—no “family” who treated her like this.
