**Cake and Other Disappointments**
I watched as Helen whipped the cream for the sponge cake, her movements precise as a watchmaker’s. The cake for Katie, her daughter, was meant to be a masterpiece—three tiers, vanilla mousse, fresh strawberries, delicate chocolate swirls. Today was Katie’s eighteenth, and Helen hoped this cake—her finest in twenty years as a baker—would melt the wall between them, grown higher with every silent dinner this past year.
*“Mum, are you done yet?”* Katie burst into the kitchen, trainers squeaking on the lino. *“Becks is on her way, and the place is a mess!”*
*“Nearly there,”* Helen smiled, wiping her hands on her apron. *“What do you think?”*
Katie glanced at the cake, her expression blank.
*“It’s… fine. But Becks says no one does big cakes anymore. Minimalist is in—no frills, just berries.”*
Helen felt the spoon grow heavy in her hand.
*“They’re not frills, love. They’re your favourite swirls, like on your tenth birthday cake. Remember?”*
*“Mum, I was ten.”* Katie rolled her eyes. *“Right, I’ll tidy the lounge. Dad’s left his papers everywhere again.”*
She left behind the sharp scent of perfume and the weight of an unfinished conversation.
By six, the lounge was transformed—balloons, fairy lights, a table of nibbles. Helen placed the cake in the centre, strawberries glistening under the chandelier like tiny rubies. Last year, Katie had skipped family tea altogether, ducking out with mates at a café. *“I’m grown now, Mum.”* Helen had saved for months—skipped new shoes, forgone baking classes—just to make today perfect.
The doorbell cut through her thoughts. Katie rushed to answer, and in floated Becks—tall, manicured nails flashing, eyes scanning the room like a barcode.
*“Whoa, what’s this?”* Becks paused at the cake, tilting her head. *“Katie, seriously? It’s, like, something for kids.”*
*“Uh, yeah, Mum’s thing,”* Katie giggled, cheeks flushing. *“She’s into, y’know… vintage stuff.”*
*“Vintage?”* Becks’ laugh was glass shattering. *“More like 90s throwback. Naked cakes are in—just berries, no icing. Right, Katie?”*
Helen gripped the edge of her apron.
*“Hello, Becks,”* she forced a smile. *“It’s what Katie always loved—vanilla and strawberries.”*
*“Loved,”* Becks emphasised, eyeing Katie. *“But tastes change, yeah? You’re all about oat milk now.”*
Katie twisted her bracelet.
*“Well, not fully… But Becks isn’t wrong. Maybe next year, something simpler?”*
Helen’s chest tightened, but she nodded.
*“Alright, love. Let’s greet your guests.”*
The living room filled with laughter and bass-heavy tracks. Helen passed canapés, ignoring Becks’ stage-whispers about the cake. Her husband, James, hunched over his laptop in the corner—his *“urgent deadline”* always trumped family.
*“You okay?”* He glanced up briefly. *“Cake looks smashing.”*
*“Ta,”* Helen said flatly. *“Could you sort drinks?”*
*“In a sec—just finishing an email.”*
Back at the table, Becks held court.
*“In London, they do matcha cakes with zero sugar. Now that’s cool. This?”* She jerked her chin at Helen’s cake. *“Looks like Nan’s bake sale.”*
Laughter rippled. Katie reddened but said nothing, fingers pleating the tablecloth.
*“Becks, it’s Mum’s cake,”* she mumbled. *“She tried.”*
*“Tried?”* Becks arched a brow. *“Katie, trying’s not enough. You don’t want your eighteenth to look like a kiddie party.”*
Helen’s cheeks burned. She bit her tongue when she saw Katie’s downcast eyes—agreeing without words.
The moment came for candles. Helen wheeled the cake in, hands trembling. Phones aimed at Katie. The flames flickered in her daughter’s eyes, just like when she was small.
*“Make a wish, love.”* Helen’s throat ached.
*“Wait—”* Becks cut in, sharp as a blade. *“Regular candles? Katie, you wanted sparklers! This is your day!”*
*“Sparklers?”* Helen faltered. *“You never said—”*
*“Because you’d just do your own thing!”* Katie exploded, voice shaking. *“Mum, I asked for something sleek—not this wedding-tier mess! I’m eighteen, not a child!”*
Whispers rose. The floor tilted under Helen.
*“I wanted you to love it,”* she whispered. *“Your favourite flavours…”*
*“Favourite?”* Katie barked a laugh, eyes wet. *“I’ve not eaten strawberries in a year! Becks is right—you live in your own world!”*
*“Babe, chill,”* Becks draped an arm over Katie, steering. *“Just blow them out. No one’s eating it anyway.”*
Helen looked at James. He shrugged.
*“Love, maybe let it go? Let the girls have fun.”*
*“Fun?”* Helen’s voice cracked. *“I saved for this. Stayed up learning new techniques. And you—”* she turned to Becks, *“who are you to decide what’s worthy?”*
Becks smirked. *“Katie’s best mate. You? Just a mum who doesn’t get it.”*
Silence. Katie studied the floor.
*“Katie,”* Helen’s voice was steel. *“It’s your day. What do you want?”*
Katie’s lips trembled. Becks coughed—a nudge.
*“I want…”* Katie choked out, *“…my way. No cakes. No… expectations.”*
Something snapped inside Helen. She remembered ten-year-old Katie, sick in bed, hugging her after a cake-fuelled peace offering: *“Best mum ever.”* That girl was gone.
*“Right,”* Helen untied her apron. *“Then I’m not needed.”*
She wheeled the cake to the kitchen. Guests parted. Someone muttered *“harsh.”* James finally looked up.
*“Helen, it’s just cake.”*
*“No,”* she said quietly. *“It’s everything I was holding onto.”*
The kitchen door clicked shut. The candles dripped wax onto the mousse like tears. Helen sat, head in hands.
An hour later, the music died. Footsteps approached. Katie stood in the doorway, mascara smudged.
*“Mum… I didn’t mean—”*
Helen looked at the untouched cake. One strawberry had slid off—collapsed hope.
*“I wanted you to feel loved,”* she said. *“But you don’t want it.”*
*“I do,”* Katie stepped closer. *“But I can’t be that little girl anymore.”*
*“Grown-ups,”* Helen said bitterly, *“don’t let friends belittle their mothers.”*
Katie tugged her bracelet. *“Becks just wants me to fit in. You don’t get it.”*
*“I do,”* Helen stood, slow as an old woman. *“But I’m a person too, Katie.”*
She opened the fridge. Katie didn’t move. James’ muffled call echoed from the lounge.
*“Mum… talk tomorrow?”*
*“Not angry,”* Helen said, pulling on her coat. *“Just tired.”*
The door closed softly. Outside, the cold air stung. In her pocket, a photo—Katie at ten, cream smeared on her nose, giggling over their first cake. Helen didn’t know if that girl would return. But for the first time in years, she remembered she was more than just *Mum*.
Behind her, the untouched cake, guttered candles, silence louder than music. Tomorrow would come. What it brought, she couldn’t say.
