Emily had spent ages curling her hair, picked out her prettiest dress, and spritzed on her nicest perfume before heading to her big sister Victoria’s birthday party. She carried a neat little cake box, hoping it might smooth things over between them—things had been frosty for a while. When she reached the fifth floor and rang the bell twice, Victoria swung the door open—glowing in a new dressing gown, curls perfectly set—and clapped her hands.
*”Is that for me? I take it you remembered my birthday?”*
*”Of course,”* Emily said calmly, handing over the box.
Victoria took it, lifted the lid, and peered inside. First, her face lit up—then suspicion crept in.
*”Did you bake this yourself?”*
*”Yeah,”* Emily smiled, hesitating just a fraction.
*”Really?”* Victoria frowned, turning the box in her hands. *”What’s in it?”*
*”Are we dissecting the recipe, or are we joining your guests?”* Emily tried to deflect.
But it was too late. Victoria had already sniffed out the truth—and for good reason. Three days ago, she’d called Emily in tears:
*”I broke a nail, had a row with Oliver—no mood for this! The cake’s off, the whole thing’s off!”*
Emily took it in stride and booked a last-minute order from a regular client. But then, today at noon, Victoria called again:
*”We made up! He got me a gold bracelet! Be here by seven—and bring the cake!”*
*”You cancelled everything…”* Emily stammered.
*”Oh, don’t nitpick! You’re a baker—prove it!”*
Emily tried explaining that cakes don’t magic themselves up in six hours, but Victoria wouldn’t budge. Desperate, Emily rang their mum.
*”Is it really so hard to do something nice for your own sister?”* was the reply.
Realising she was on her own, Emily improvised—she bought an unused cake from a little-known baker, Gemma. It looked decent enough. The gesture was what mattered, right? But Victoria saw through it instantly.
*”Gemma, come here!”* she shouted toward the kitchen.
Out walked a dark-haired woman Emily recognised immediately.
*”Is this your cake?”* Victoria asked icily.
*”Mine. She bought it off me. So this is your famous baker sister?”* Gemma smirked.
Emily froze. The guests went silent. Victoria pressed her lips together, tore off the lid, scooped up a fingerful of icing—and flung it straight at Emily’s face.
*”You eat this rubbish!”* she hissed. *”Couldn’t even be bothered to make your own. Get out!”*
She shoved Emily out the door, then booted Gemma out too—who, on her way, hurled curses and flipped off the whole flat.
Outside, wiping icing off her face with wet wipes, Emily opened her phone to dozens of texts from their mum:
*”Embarrassing the family! Lying to your own sister! Have you no shame?”*
She didn’t reply. Just locked the screen. But it wasn’t over.
The next morning, Victoria’s post blew up online: *”Don’t even trust your own sister—turns up with a shop-bought cake and tries to pass it off as hers. Pathetic.”*
Emily cried for half the day. Then—she pulled herself together. Not for them. For herself. That day, she swore: no more cakes for family. No more goodwill gestures for people who’d trample it without a second thought.
And for the first time in ages, she felt lighter. Because now, only the genuinely sweet things would stay in her life—no faking, no pretending, and no so-called *”family”* to sour it.
