“Eat that rubbish yourself”: How my sister humiliated me in front of everyone over someone else’s cake
Emily had carefully styled her hair, picked her best dress, and dabbed on a light spritz of perfume before heading to her older sister Victoria’s birthday party. She carried a neatly boxed cake, hoping it might soften the tension between them. Climbing to the fifth floor, she rang the bell twice. The door swung open, and Victoria—beaming in a new dressing gown, her curls perfectly set—clapped her hands.
“Is that for me? I suppose you haven’t forgotten my birthday?”
“Of course it’s for you,” Emily replied calmly, offering the box.
Victoria took the cake with interest, lifted the lid, and peered inside. Her face flickered between admiration and suspicion.
“Did you bake this yourself?”
“Well, yes,” Emily smiled hesitantly.
“Really?” Victoria frowned, turning the box in her hands. “What’s in it?”
“Shall we discuss the ingredients or join your guests?” Emily tried to steer the conversation away.
But it was too late. Victoria sensed something was off—and rightly so. Three days earlier, she’d called Emily in tears.
“I broke a nail and rowed with Oliver. I’m in no mood! The cake’s off, the whole party’s off!”
Emily had taken the news calmly and accepted a last-minute order from a regular client. But then, just that afternoon, Victoria called again.
“We’ve made up! He gave me a gold bracelet! Be here by seven—and bring a cake!”
“You cancelled everything,” Emily stammered.
“Don’t be difficult! You’re a baker—prove yourself!”
Emily tried explaining a cake couldn’t be made in six hours, but Victoria insisted. She rang their mother, hoping for backup.
“Can’t you just do this one thing for your own sister?” came the reply.
Realising no help would come, Emily improvised: she bought an unsold cake from a small-time baker, Rosemary. It looked decent enough. The gesture was what mattered. But Victoria saw through it instantly.
“Rosemary, come here!” she shouted toward the kitchen.
A long-haired brunette emerged—Emily recognised her immediately.
“Is this your cake?” Victoria demanded coldly.
“Mine. She bought it from me. So, this is your famous baker sister?” Rosemary sneered.
Emily froze. The guests fell silent. Victoria pressed her lips together, ripped off the lid, scooped frosting with her finger—and flung it in Emily’s face.
“Eat that rubbish yourself!” she hissed. “You couldn’t even bother to make something of your own. Get out!”
Emily was shoved out the door, Rosemary following behind. As she left, Rosemary cursed loudly and flashed a rude gesture.
Outside, wiping her face with tissues, Emily checked her phone to dozens of messages from their mother.
“Shaming the family! Lying to your own sister! Have you no shame?”
She didn’t reply. Just locked the screen silently. But it wasn’t over.
The next morning, Victoria’s social media post went up: “Don’t trust even your sister—brought a shop-bought cake and passed it off as hers. Pathetic.”
Emily cried for hours. Then—she pulled herself together. Not for them. For herself. That day, she swore: no more cakes for family. No more goodwill for those who’d trample it without a second thought.
And for the first time in years, she felt lighter. Because now, only the truly sweet things would remain in her life—no fakes, no hypocrisy, and none of those who called themselves family.
