The Cake and Other Disappointments
Emily whisked the cream for the sponge cake, her movements precise as a watchmaker’s. The cake for her daughter, Charlotte, was meant to be her masterpiece—three tiers, vanilla mousse, fresh strawberries, delicate chocolate swirls. Today was Charlotte’s eighteenth birthday, and Emily hoped this cake—her finest in twenty years as a baker—might melt the wall that had grown between them this past year.
*”Mum, are you done yet?”* Charlotte burst into the kitchen, her trainers squeaking on the lino. *”Zoe’s on her way, and the place is a mess!”*
*”Nearly there,”* Emily smiled, wiping her hands on her apron. *”What do you think?”*
Charlotte glanced at the cake, her expression blank.
*”It’s… fine. But Zoe says cakes like this are out of fashion now. Everyone’s going for minimalist stuff—none of these… frills.”*
Emily’s grip on the spoon tightened.
*”They’re not frills, love. They’re your favourite patterns, just like the cake you had when you turned ten. Remember?”*
*”Mum, I was ten.”* Charlotte rolled her eyes. *”Anyway, I’ll tidy the lounge. Dad’s left his paperwork everywhere again.”*
She left, leaving behind a faint trace of perfume and the hollow sense that Emily had been talking to empty air.
—
By six, the lounge was transformed—balloons, fairy lights, a table of snacks. Emily placed the cake in the centre, the strawberries glistening under the chandelier like tiny rubies. She remembered how last year Charlotte had skipped the family celebration to meet friends at a café. *”I’m grown now, Mum,”* she’d said. Emily had saved for months—skipping new shoes, cancelling baking subscriptions—just so today would be perfect.
The doorbell shattered her thoughts. Charlotte rushed to answer it, and in glided Zoe—tall, manicured nails, her gaze scanning the room like a barcode reader.
*”Whoa, what’s this—a cake?”* Zoe paused, tilting her head. *”Char, seriously? This is kiddie stuff!”*
*”It’s Mum’s thing,”* Charlotte giggled, her cheeks flushing. *”She loves these… vintage looks.”*
*”Vintage?”* Zoe snorted, her laugh sharp as shattered glass. *”More like the nineties! Everyone’s doing naked cakes now—just berries, no frosting. Right, Char?”*
Emily’s fingers curled around her apron, the kitchen suddenly claustrophobic.
*”Hello, Zoe,”* she forced a smile. *”It’s the flavours Charlotte loves—vanilla and strawberry.”*
*”Loved,”* Zoe stressed, eyeing Charlotte. *”Tastes change, yeah? Char’s all about vegan vibes now, isn’t she?”*
Charlotte fidgeted with her bracelet.
*”Well, not entirely… But Zoe’s right, Mum. Maybe next year you could do something… trendier?”*
Emily’s chest tightened, but she nodded.
*”Alright, love. Let’s focus on the guests for now.”*
—
The flat filled with laughter and music as Charlotte’s schoolmates arrived. Emily handed out canapés, ignoring Zoe’s whispered jabs at the cake. Her husband, James, sat in the corner, glued to his laptop. His *”urgent project”* always trumped family occasions.
*”Em, you alright?”* He glanced up briefly. *”Cake looks brilliant, as usual.”*
*”Thanks,”* she said flatly. *”Fancy helping with drinks?”*
*”In a sec—just finishing this email.”*
Back at the table, Zoe was loudly schooling the group on *”proper parties.”*
*”London’s all about gluten-free, sugar-free matcha cakes now. This?”* She flicked a glance at Emily’s creation. *”Might as well be from Granny’s oven.”*
Laughter rippled. Charlotte reddened but stayed quiet, twisting the tablecloth.
*”Zoe, Mum worked hard on this,”* she murmured.
*”Worked hard?”* Zoe raised an eyebrow. *”Effort’s one thing, Char. Being on-trend’s another. You don’t want your eighteenth looking like a kiddie party, do you?”*
Emily’s face burned. She wanted to argue, but Charlotte’s downcast eyes silenced her.
—
The moment arrived—time to light the candles. Emily wheeled the cake out, hands trembling. Phones lifted as Charlotte stepped forward. The flames flickered in her eyes, just like when she was little.
*”Make a wish, love,”* Emily said, throat tight.
*”Wait—”* Zoe cut in, her voice slicing the quiet. *”Normal candles? Char, you wanted sparklers! This is your day!”*
*”Sparklers?”* Emily blinked. *”You never mentioned—”*
*”Because you’d just do your usual!”* Charlotte’s voice cracked. *”Mum, I asked for something simple. Modern. Not some wedding-tier cake! I’m eighteen, not a child!”*
Whispers spread. Emily’s knees threatened to buckle.
*”I wanted you to love it,”* she whispered. *”Your favourite flavours…”*
*”Favourite?”* Charlotte laughed, tears gleaming. *”I haven’t eaten strawberries in a year! Zoe’s right—you’re stuck in your own world!”*
*”Chill, babe,”* Zoe draped an arm over her, conductor of this cruel orchestra. *”Just blow them out. No one’s eating it anyway.”*
Emily looked to James. He shrugged.
*”Em, leave it. Let the girls enjoy themselves.”*
*”Enjoy themselves?”* Her voice shook as she gripped the trolley. *”I saved for months. Stayed up learning new techniques. And you, Zoe—who are you to decide what matters here?”*
Zoe smirked, cold as frost.
*”Charlotte’s best friend. And you? Just a mum who doesn’t get her time’s up.”*
Silence. Charlotte stared at the floor.
*”Charlotte,”* Emily’s voice was raw, *”say something. It’s your day.”*
Charlotte’s lips trembled. Zoe coughed—a nudge.
*”Mum… I just want it my way. No cakes. No… expectations.”*
Something shattered inside Emily. She pictured ten-year-old Charlotte, sick in bed, clinging after a cake-fuelled truce: *”Best mum ever.”* That girl was gone.
*”Fine.”* She untied her apron. *”Then you don’t need me.”*
She pushed the cake toward the kitchen. Guests parted. Someone muttered *”harsh.”* James finally looked up.
*”Em, it’s just a cake.”*
*”Just a cake?”* Her voice was steel. *”It’s everything I tried to hold onto.”*
The kitchen door shut. The candles wept wax onto ruined frosting. Emily sat, head in hands.
—
An hour later, the music died. Footsteps approached. Charlotte stood in the doorway, mascara smudged.
*”Mum… I didn’t mean it.”*
Emily stared. The cake sat untouched—one strawberry slid off like a fallen hope.
*”I just wanted you to feel loved,”* she said. *”But you don’t want that.”*
*”I do,”* Charlotte stepped closer. *”But I can’t be the girl who eats your cakes and takes your advice. I’m grown, Mum.”*
*”Grown?”* Emily’s laugh was bitter. *”Grown women let friends disrespect their mothers?”*
Charlotte twisted her bracelet.
*”Zoe just… wants me to be cool. You wouldn’t get it.”*
*”I do,”* Emily stood, moving like an old woman. *”But I’m human too, Charlotte. Even I have limits.”*
She opened the fridge. Charlotte didn’t move. James’ indifferent voice drifted from the lounge.
*”Mum… talk tomorrow?”*
*”I’m not angry, love. Just tired.”*
Charlotte nodded, still waiting. Emily grabbed her coat.
*”Where are you going?”*
*”Out. It’s your party. Enjoy it.”*
The door clicked shut. Cold air hit her face. In her bag was a photo—ten-year-old Charlotte, cream on her nose, laughing over their first cake. She didn’t know if that girl still existed. But for the first time in years, Emily wasn’t just a mum. She was herself.
Behind her, the lounge held a silent cake, dead candles, and a quiet louder than any music. Tomorrow was a new day. What it held, she couldn’t say.
