I had a list of everything I needed to control to make Patricia-proof. It had to be small so I could plan and do most of the work.
One night, I sighed in bed, worrying about everything that could go wrong.
“It would be easier to just not invite her,” I told Daniel.
“She means well,” Daniel replied, linking our fingers. Give her a chance. She won’t wreck a cake-cutting.”
My hubby. Always hopeful. Never giving up on individuals, even if they’ve committed spectacular sabotage.
A meticulously prepared event took place in the backyard that afternoon.
The maple trees diffused soft June sunlight, casting shadows on the elegantly set table.
The edges had pink and blue goodies. I served macarons with beautiful color gradients, cupcakes with small gender-neutral question mark picks, and complementary sparkling drinks.
Cake in the center. A tall white confection that held all our hopes and expectations.
Jenny, my sister-in-law, gave birth.
The cake had white icing, small sugar question marks, and a fun “Boy or Girl?” topper. It was flawless.
For a brief, glorious moment, I thought we could pass this milestone without drama.
Patricia arrived.She arrived 20 minutes late in a pink blouse (understated). She air-kissed me with her years-honed performative devotion and then focused on the cake like a heat-seeking missile.
“It’s so tall,” she added, mockingly concerned. Are you sure it’s stable?
Jenny, bless her, kept going. Mom, it’s fine. Personally, I drove it over.”
As I watched her circle the cake like a shark, looking for an area where the color was showing through the icing, I felt that old strain in my shoulders.
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