**Diary Entry – June 12th**
I’d spent ages curling my hair, slipping into my best dress, and dabbing on just enough perfume before heading to my sister Victoria’s birthday. In my hands, I carried a neat cake box, hopeful it might mend things between us, even slightly. Walking up to her flat on the fifth floor, I pressed the buzzer twice. The door swung open, and there she stood—Victoria, glowing in a new silk robe, her curls perfectly set—clapping gleefully.
“For me? So you *didn’t* forget my birthday, then?”
“Of course it’s for you,” I said evenly, holding out the box.
She snatched it, lifting the lid to peek inside. First, awe flickered across her face—then suspicion.
“Made it yourself, did you?”
“Well… yes,” I answered with a hesitant smile.
“Really?” Her brows knit as she turned the box in her hands. “What’s in it?”
“Do we really need to discuss ingredients, or shall we join your guests?” I tried to steer the conversation away.
Too late. Victoria sensed something was off—and rightly so. Three days ago, she’d called me in tears: “Broke a nail, had a row with Oliver. I’m cancelling the cake, cancelling everything!” I’d taken it in stride, even accepted a last-minute order from a regular client. But then, this afternoon, another call: “We’ve made up! He got me a gold bracelet! Be here by seven—*and bring a cake*.”
“You *cancelled*,” I stammered.
“Don’t be difficult! You’re a *pastry chef*—prove it!”
I tried explaining a proper cake doesn’t materialise in six hours, but she wouldn’t budge. So I rang Mum, desperate for backup.
“Is it *that* hard to do something nice for your sister?” was all she said.
Realising I was on my own, I improvised—buying an unsold cake from a small-time baker, Vera. It looked decent. The gesture was what mattered. But Victoria saw right through it.
“Vera, come here!” she shouted toward the kitchen.
Out walked a dark-haired woman I recognised instantly.
“Is this your cake?” Victoria asked icily.
“Mine. She bought it off me. So this is your famous pastry-chef sister?” Vera smirked.
I froze. The room fell silent. Then, lips pressed tight, Victoria ripped the lid off, scooped frosting with her finger—and hurled it straight at my face.
“Eat this rubbish yourself!” she hissed. “Couldn’t even be bothered to make something *your own*. Get out.”
I was shoved out the door, Vera tossed out behind me—shouting curses and flipping the bird as she left.
Outside, wiping my face with a tissue, I unlocked my phone to dozens of messages from Mum: “Disgraceful! Lying to your own sister! Have you no shame?”
I didn’t reply. Just switched off the screen. But it wasn’t over.
By morning, Victoria’s post was all over socials: “Don’t even trust family—brought a shop-bought cake and passed it off as hers. Pathetic.”
I cried for hours. Then—I pulled myself together. Not for them. For *me*. That day, I made a vow: not another cake for family. Not another olive branch for people who’d crush it the second it suited them.
And for the first time in ages, I felt lighter. Because from now on, my life would only hold what’s truly sweet—no faking, no lies. And no one who calls themselves family.
