The Cake and Other Disappointments
Emily whipped the cream for the sponge cake, her movements precise as a watchmaker’s. The cake for Lily, her daughter, was meant to be a masterpiece: three tiers, vanilla mousse, fresh strawberries, delicate chocolate swirls. Today was Lily’s eighteenth, and Emily hoped this cake—her finest in twenty years as a pastry chef—might melt the icy wall between them this past year.
“Mum, you’re still not done?” Lily barged into the kitchen, her trainers squeaking against the lino. “Sophie’s on her way, and the place is a mess!”
“Almost there,” Emily smiled, wiping her hands on her apron. “What do you think?”
Lily glanced at the cake, her expression blank.
“Uh… fine. Though, Soph says these kinds of cakes are out now. Everyone’s doing minimalist stuff—none of these… flourishes.”
The spoon in Emily’s hand suddenly weighed a tonne.
“They’re not just flourishes, love. They’re the same patterns you loved on your tenth birthday cake. Remember?”
“Mum, I was ten,” Lily rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll tidy the lounge. Dad’s left his papers everywhere again.”
She left behind a whisper of perfume and the sting of indifference.
—
By six, the lounge was transformed—balloons, bunting, a table piled with snacks. Emily set the cake at the centre, its berries glinting under the chandelier like rubies. She remembered last year when Lily had ditched their family dinner for a café with friends. “I’m grown now, Mum,” she’d tossed back. Emily had saved for months—skipping new shoes, cancelling cookery subscriptions—just to make tonight perfect.
The doorbell shattered her thoughts. Lily flung it open, and in glided Sophie—tall, manicured nails pristine, eyes scanning the room like a checkout scanner.
“Wow, is this the cake?” Sophie paused, tilting her head. “Lils, seriously? This is so kiddie!”
“Yeah, Mum’s thing,” Lily giggled, though her cheeks flushed. “She’s into, like, retro stuff.”
“Retro?” Sophie’s laugh was like shattered glass. “More like the nineties! Naked cakes with berries are in now. Right, Lils?”
Emily gripped her apron, the kitchen shrinking around her.
“Hello, Sophie,” she forced a smile. “Lily’s always loved vanilla and strawberries.”
“Loved,” Sophie stressed, eyeing Lily. “But tastes change, yeah? You’re all about vegan now?”
Lily twisted her bracelet.
“Well, not fully… but Soph’s right, Mum. Maybe next year go simpler?”
Emily’s chest tightened, but she nodded. “Alright, love. Let’s greet your guests.”
—
The lounge filled with laughter and music as Lily’s school and college mates arrived. Emily served canapés, ignoring Sophie’s whispers and pointed looks at her cake. Her husband, James, hunched over his laptop in the corner—another “urgent project” trumping family.
“You alright, Em?” James barely glanced up. “Cake looks stunning, as usual.”
“Ta,” she said flatly. “Fancy helping with drinks?”
“Just need to finish this email,” he muttered, already refocused.
Emily returned to the table where Sophie held court.
“There was this party in London,” she announced, “with a gluten-free, sugar-free matcha cake. That’s style. This?” She flicked a glance at Emily’s cake. “Nursery stuff.”
Laughter rippled. Lily stared at her hands.
“Soph, it’s Mum’s cake,” she mumbled. “She tried.”
“Tried?” Sophie arched a brow. “Sweetheart, trying’s one thing. Being on-trend’s another. You don’t want your eighteenth to look like a kiddie party?”
Emily’s cheeks burned. She wanted to argue, but Lily’s downcast eyes silenced her.
—
The moment came: time for candles. Emily wheeled the cake out, her hands trembling. Phones aimed at Lily as the flames flickered in her eyes—just like childhood.
“Make a wish, love,” Emily whispered, throat tight.
“Wait—” Sophie cut in. “Standard candles? Lils, you wanted sparklers! It’s your day!”
“Sparklers?” Emily froze. “Lily, you never said—”
“Because you’d just do your own thing!” Lily exploded. “Mum, I asked for simple! Modern! Not some wedding-tier cake! I’m eighteen!”
Guests gasped. The floor lurched beneath Emily.
“I wanted it to be special,” she said hoarsely. “Your favourite—”
“Favourite?” Lily’s laugh was brittle. “I’ve not touched strawberries in a year! Sophie’s right—you’re stuck in your own world!”
“Babe, chill,” Sophie patted Lily’s shoulder like a conductor. “Blow them out. Nobody’s eating it anyway.”
Emily searched James’s face for backup. He shrugged.
“Em, maybe leave it? Let the girls enjoy themselves.”
“Enjoy—?” Her voice cracked. “I planned for months! Saved, practised—for nothing? And you, Sophie—who made you judge?”
Sophie smirked. “I’m Lily’s friend. You? Just a mum who doesn’t get her time’s up.”
Silence. Lily twisted her bracelet.
“Lily,” Emily begged, “it’s your night. What do you want?”
Lily’s lips trembled. Sophie coughed—a nudge.
“Mum,” Lily finally said, “it’s my turn to choose. No cakes. No… expectations.”
Something shattered inside Emily. Five years ago, after a row with James, Lily had fallen ill. Emily baked her a cake, and Lily had clung to her, whispering, “You’re the best.” That girl was gone.
“Right.” Emily untied her apron. “Then you don’t need me.”
She wheeled the cake away. Guests parted. “Harsh,” someone muttered. James finally looked up.
“Em, it’s just cake.”
“Just cake?” Her whisper was steel. “It’s everything I couldn’t hold onto.”
Alone in the kitchen, she stared at the melting candles. The urge to cut it, serve it—gone. She sat, head in hands.
—
An hour later, the music died. Footsteps. Lily stood in the doorway, mascara smudged.
“Mum… I didn’t mean—”
Emily stared. One strawberry had rolled onto the table—ruined.
“I wanted you to feel loved,” Emily said. “But you don’t want that.”
“I do,” Lily stepped closer. “But I’m not that little girl anymore.”
“Grown-ups let friends insult their mothers?”
Lily studied her bracelet. “Sophie just wants the best for me. You don’t get it.”
“I do.” Emily stood, weary. “But I’ve got limits too.”
She slid the cake into the fridge. James’s indifferent voice drifted in.
“Mum… talk tomorrow?” Lily said. “Don’t be mad.”
“Not mad,” Emily sighed. “Just tired.”
Lily hesitated, expecting—what? Emily grabbed her coat.
“Your party, love. Enjoy it.”
The door clicked shut. Cold air hit her lungs—freeing. In her bag was a photo: Lily at ten, icing on her nose, giggling over their first cake. She didn’t know if that girl still existed. But for the first time in years, Emily wasn’t just “Mum.” She was herself.
Behind her: an untouched cake, dead candles, silence louder than music. Tomorrow was another day. What it’d bring—she couldn’t say.
