**The Cake and Other Disappointments**
I watched as Eleanor whisked cream for the sponge cake, her movements precise as a watchmaker’s. The cake for her daughter, Natalie, was meant to be a masterpiece: three tiers, vanilla mousse, fresh strawberries, delicate chocolate swirls. Today was Natalie’s eighteenth, and Eleanor hoped this cake—her finest in twenty years as a baker—might melt the wall that had grown between them over the past year.
“Mum, are you done yet?” Natalie burst into the kitchen, her trainers squeaking against the lino. “Lucy’s already on her way, and the place is a mess!”
“Almost,” Eleanor smiled, wiping her hands on her apron. “What do you think?”
Natalie glanced at the cake, her expression blank.
“It’s… fine. Just, Lucy says these sorts of cakes are out of fashion. Everyone’s into minimal stuff now, none of these… frills.”
Eleanor’s wooden spoon suddenly felt heavier.
“They’re not frills, love. These are the same patterns you adored on your tenth birthday cake. Remember?”
“Mum, I was ten,” Natalie rolled her eyes. “Alright, I’ll tidy the lounge. Dad’s left his files everywhere again.”
She left, trailing the faint scent of perfume and the crushing sense that Eleanor had been speaking to empty air.
By six, the lounge was transformed: balloons, bunting, a table laden with nibbles. Eleanor placed the cake in the centre, its berries glinting under the chandelier like tiny rubies. She remembered last year, when Natalie had ditched the family party for a café with friends. *I’m grown up, Mum*. She’d saved for this cake—skipping new shoes, cancelling pastry classes—just to make today perfect.
The doorbell shattered the thought. Natalie flung it open, and in glided Lucy—tall, with neon-pink nails and a gaze that assessed everything like a barcode scanner.
“Wow, what’s this?” Lucy paused before the cake, tilting her head. “Nat, seriously? This is a kids’ birthday cake!”
“It’s Mum’s thing,” Natalie giggled, cheeks flushing. “She loves these… vintage touches.”
“Vintage?” Lucy’s laugh tinkled like broken glass. “More like the nineties! Naked cakes are in now—just berries, no frills. Right, Nat?”
Eleanor clutched her apron, the kitchen shrinking around her.
“Hello, Lucy,” she forced a smile. “It’s Natalie’s favourite—vanilla and strawberries.”
“*Was* her favourite,” Lucy stressed, staring at Natalie. “Tastes change. Nat’s gone plant-based now, hasn’t she?”
Natalie fidgeted with her bracelet.
“Well, not fully… but Lucy’s right, Mum. Maybe next year, something trendier?”
Eleanor’s chest tightened, but she nodded.
Later, the room buzzed with Natalie’s school and uni friends. Eleanor served canapés, ignoring Lucy’s whispers and pointed looks at the cake. Her husband, Oliver, hunched in the corner over his laptop. His *urgent project* always trumped family.
“Ellie, alright?” Oliver barely glanced up. “Cake looks smashing, as usual.”
She mustered a smile. “Could you help with drinks?”
“In a minute—just finishing an email.”
Back at the table, Lucy held court.
“In London, they had this matcha-glazed cake—no gluten, no sugar,” she announced. “*That’s* elegance. This?” She nodded at Eleanor’s creation. “Like something Gran would make.”
Laughter rippled. Natalie reddened but stayed quiet, twisting the tablecloth.
“Lucy, it’s Mum’s cake,” she muttered. “She put effort in.”
“Effort?” Lucy scoffed. “Effort’s one thing. Being *on trend* is another. You don’t want your eighteenth looking like a kiddie party, do you?”
Eleanor’s face burned. She wanted to argue, but Natalie’s downcast eyes silenced her.
The moment came for candles. Eleanor wheeled the cake out, hands trembling. Silence fell; phone cameras aimed at Natalie. The candlelight flickered in her daughter’s eyes—just like when she was small.
“Make a wish, darling,” Eleanor whispered, throat tight.
“Wait—” Lucy stepped forward. “Normal candles? Nat, you *said* you wanted sparklers! It’s your day!”
“Sparklers?” Eleanor blinked. “You never mentioned—”
“Because you’d just do your own thing!” Natalie snapped, voice shaking. “Mum, I asked for something simple, modern—not a *wedding cake*! I’m eighteen, not five!”
Whispers rose. The floor seemed to tilt.
“I just wanted you to love it,” Eleanor managed. “It’s your favourite—”
“Favourite?” Natalie laughed, tears gleaming. “I haven’t eaten strawberries in a *year*! Lucy’s right—you live in your own world!”
“Chill, Nat.” Lucy squeezed her shoulder. “Let’s just blow them out. No one’s eating it anyway.”
Eleanor looked to Oliver, but he just shrugged.
“Ellie, let it go. Let the kids enjoy themselves.”
*Enjoy themselves?* Her voice shook. “Three months, Oliver. Saving, learning new techniques—just to see her smile. And *you*—” she turned to Lucy, “—who are *you* to decide what happens here?”
Lucy smiled coldly. “Nat’s best friend. And you? Just a mum who doesn’t get her time’s passed.”
Silence. Natalie stared at her feet.
“Nat,” Eleanor pleaded, “it’s your day. What do *you* want?”
Natalie hesitated, lips trembling. Lucy coughed—a nudge.
“Mum,” she finally whispered, “I want it my way. No cakes. No… expectations.”
Something inside Eleanor broke. She remembered five years ago—Natalie ill after a row with Oliver, and Eleanor baking just to see her smile. Back then, Natalie had hugged her: *Best mum ever*. Now, nothing remained of that girl.
“Fine.” Eleanor untied her apron and set it aside. “Then you don’t need me.”
She wheeled the cake away. The crowd parted. Someone muttered *harsh*. Lucy smirked. Oliver finally looked up.
“Ellie—it’s just a cake.”
“No,” she said softly. “It’s everything I tried to hold onto.”
In the kitchen, the candles guttered. Wax dripped onto the frosting like tears. She wanted to cut it, serve it—but instead, she sat, head in hands.
Later, footsteps. Natalie stood in the doorway, mascara smudged.
“Mum… I’m sorry.”
Eleanor looked up but said nothing. One strawberry had slipped onto the counter—a fallen hope.
“I just wanted you to know how much I love you,” she said finally. “But you don’t want that.”
“I do,” Natalie whispered. “But I can’t be the little girl who eats your cakes and follows your advice. I’m grown up.”
Eleanor smiled bitterly. “Grown-ups let friends insult their mums?”
Natalie toyed with her bracelet. “Lucy… she just wants me to fit in. You wouldn’t get it.”
“I do.” Eleanor stood stiffly. “But I’m human too, Nat. And I’ve got limits.”
She opened the fridge. Natalie watched, motionless.
“Talk tomorrow?” she asked softly.
Eleanor closed the door.
“I’m not angry,” she said, grabbing her coat. “I’m just tired.”
Outside, the cold air was a relief. In her bag, a crumpled photo: Natalie at ten, nose smeared with cream, giggling over their first cake together. Eleanor didn’t know if she’d ever find that girl again—but for the first time in years, she felt like more than just a mum.
Behind her, the untouched cake sat in silence, louder than any music. Tomorrow was another day. What it’d bring, she couldn’t say.
*Lesson: Love isn’t measured in layers of sponge or sugar—but sometimes, we forget that until the candles burn out.*
