The Cake and Other Disappointments
Margaret whipped the cream for the sponge cake, her movements precise as a watchmaker’s. The cake for her daughter, Emily, was meant to be her masterpiece: three tiers, vanilla mousse, fresh strawberries, delicate chocolate curls. Today was Emily’s eighteenth birthday, and Margaret hoped this cake—her finest in twenty years as a pastry chef—might melt the wall that had grown between them over the past year.
“Mum, are you done yet?” Emily barged into the kitchen, her trainers squeaking on the lino. “Sophie’s on her way, and the place is a mess!”
“Almost,” Margaret smiled, wiping her hands on her apron. “What do you think?”
Emily barely glanced at the cake, her expression blank.
“It’s… fine. But Sophie says these sorts of cakes are out of fashion now. Everybody does minimalist things, without all these… frills.”
Margaret felt the spoon grow heavier in her hand.
“They’re not frills, love. They’re the same designs you loved on your tenth birthday cake. Remember?”
“Mum, I was ten,” Emily rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I’ll tidy the lounge. Dad’s left his papers everywhere again.”
She left, trailing the faint scent of perfume and leaving Margaret feeling as if she’d been talking to an empty room.
By six, the lounge was transformed—balloons, fairy lights, a table laden with snacks. Margaret placed the cake in the centre, its berries glinting under the chandelier like tiny rubies. She remembered how, last year, Emily had refused a family celebration, running off to a café with friends instead. “I’m grown up now, Mum,” she’d said. Margaret had saved for months, skipping new shoes and cooking classes, just to make this day perfect.
The doorbell shattered her thoughts. Emily dashed to answer it, and in swept Sophie—tall, with bright pink nails and a gaze that scanned everything like a till receipt.
“Wow, what’s this, then?” Sophie stopped before the cake, tilting her head. “Em, seriously? This is for kids!”
“It’s, um, Mum’s thing,” Emily giggled, though her cheeks flushed. “She loves these… retro bits.”
“Retro?” Sophie laughed, her voice sharp as broken glass. “More like something from the ’90s! Bare cakes are in now—just berries, no icing. Right, Em?”
Margaret gripped her apron, the kitchen suddenly stifling.
“Hello, Sophie,” she forced a smile. “This is Emily’s favourite. She’s always loved vanilla and strawberries.”
“Loved,” Sophie emphasised, eyeing Emily. “But tastes change, yeah? Em’s all about that vegan vibe now, isn’t she?”
Emily fidgeted with her bracelet.
“Well, not exactly… but Sophie’s right, Mum. Maybe next year, something… newer?”
Margaret’s chest tightened, but she nodded.
“Alright, love. Let’s get the guests in.”
Soon, the lounge buzzed with Emily’s friends, their laughter and music drowning out Margaret’s quiet offering of canapés. She tried not to notice Sophie whispering to Emily, gesturing at the cake. Her husband, James, sat hunched over his laptop in the corner. His “urgent work” always trumped family.
“Meg, you alright?” He glanced up briefly. “Cake looks smashing, as ever.”
“Thanks,” she managed. “Could you help with drinks?”
“In a sec—just finishing an email.”
Margaret returned to the table where Sophie was preaching about “the latest party trends.”
“In London last week, this place did a matcha cake—gluten-free, zero sugar. Now that’s style! But this…” she nodded at Margaret’s creation, “…honestly, looks like something Granny baked.”
The crowd tittered. Emily reddened but stayed silent, twisting the tablecloth.
“Sophie, that’s Mum’s cake,” she murmured. “She worked hard.”
“Hard?” Sophie arched a brow. “Mate, effort’s one thing, but being on-trend’s another. You don’t want your eighteenth to look like a kiddie party, do you?”
Margaret’s face burned. She bit back a retort when she saw Emily’s downcast eyes—agreeing.
The moment came to light the candles. Margaret wheeled the cake in, her hands trembling. The crowd hushed; phone cameras pointed at Emily. The candlelight flickered in her daughter’s eyes, just like when she was small.
“Make a wish, love,” Margaret whispered, throat thick.
“Wait—” Sophie cut in, voice slicing the quiet. “Are those just normal candles? Em, you wanted sparklers! It’s your day!”
“Sparklers?” Margaret faltered. “Emily, you never said—”
“Because you’d just do it your way!” Emily burst out, voice shaking. “Mum, I asked for something simple, modern, and you’re still doing these wedding cakes! I’m eighteen, not a child!”
Whispers spread. The floor seemed to drop beneath Margaret.
“I wanted you to love it,” she said softly. “It’s your favourite—”
“Favourite?” Emily laughed, tears glinting. “I haven’t eaten strawberries in a year! Sophie’s right—you live in your own world!”
“Em, don’t go off,” Sophie said, a conductor guiding the scene. “Just blow them out. No one’s eating it anyway.”
Margaret looked to James. He shrugged.
“Meg, leave it. Let the girls have fun.”
“Fun?” Her voice quivered. “I saved for months. Stayed up practising new techniques just to see Emily smile. And you, Sophie—who are you to decide anything here?”
Sophie smirked, chin high.
“I’m Em’s best mate. And you, Margaret… you’re just a mum who doesn’t get her time’s passed.”
Silence. Emily stared at the floor, bracelet clutched tight.
“Emily,” Margaret turned to her. “It’s your day. What do you want?”
Emily’s lips trembled. Sophie coughed, nudging her on.
“Mum,” she finally whispered, “I want it my way. No cakes. No… expectations.”
Something inside Margaret broke. She remembered baking a cake five years ago when Emily, sick after a row with James, had hugged her, whispering, “You’re the best mum.” That girl was gone.
“Fine.” She slowly untied her apron. “Then I’m not needed.”
She wheeled the cake away. Guests murmured; someone muttered, “Harsh.” James finally looked up.
“Meg, it’s just a cake.”
“Just a cake?” Her voice was steady now. “It’s everything I tried to hold onto.”
In the kitchen, the candles dripped wax onto the icing like tears. Margaret sat, head in hands.
An hour later, the music faded. Emily appeared in the doorway, mascara smudged.
“Mum… sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Margaret studied her. One strawberry had rolled onto the table—a fallen hope.
“I wanted you to feel loved,” she said. “But you don’t want that.”
“I do,” Emily stepped closer. “But I can’t be the girl who eats your cakes and takes your advice. I’m grown now.”
“Grown?” Margaret laughed bitterly. “Grown women let friends insult their mothers?”
Emily tugged her bracelet.
“Sophie just wants me to be cool. You don’t get it.”
“I do,” Margaret stood slowly. “But I’m human too, Emily. I have limits.”
She opened the fridge. Emily didn’t move. James’ indifferent voice drifted from the lounge.
“Mum… talk tomorrow? Don’t be mad.”
Margaret shut the door.
“I’m not mad, love. I’m tired.”
She took her coat, passing Emily, who stood frozen.
“Where are you going?”
“For a walk. It’s your party. Enjoy it.”
The door clicked shut. Outside, the cold air cleared her lungs. In her bag was a photo she always carried: ten-year-old Emily, cream on her nose, laughing over their first cake. Margaret didn’t know if that girl would ever return. But for the first time in years, she felt not just a mother, but herself.
Behind her, the untouched cake sat in silence, louder than any music. Tomorrow was a new day—but what it would bring, she couldn’t say.
