“You’re baking your own wedding cake?” she said, surprised. “Is this a backyard barbecue or a wedding?” When we politely declined her offer to hire a high-end bakery, she made sure to express her disapproval with sarcastic comments and thinly veiled jabs.
Still, I kept going.
For weeks, I tested recipes and practiced techniques late into the night. I studied everything—flavors, frostings, structural tricks. The night before the wedding, I assembled a three-tiered vanilla bean cake with raspberry filling and a Swiss meringue buttercream. It was elegant and exactly what I had hoped for.
Our wedding day was beautiful. We kept things simple and heartfelt. When the cake was rolled out during the reception, I felt proud. Guests raved about it, and Dave beamed every time someone asked who had made it.
Then came the unexpected twist.
Christine picked up the microphone for a toast and, with a smile, declared, “Of course I had to step in and make the cake! I couldn’t let my son be embarrassed on his big day!”
Laughter followed. I froze. It was a lighthearted moment for some, but I felt the sting deeply.
Dave leaned toward me. “Let her have the moment,” he whispered. “The truth will come out.”
He was right.
The next morning, I got a call from Christine. She sounded unusually chipper.
“Mrs. Wilson loved the cake,” she said. “She wants one just like it for her charity event. I told her I made it, so… I need your recipe. And those flower things you did—what are they called again?”
I paused. “You mean the flowers I spent hours piping? On the cake you said you made?”
There was silence, then a half-hearted response: “Well, it was sort of a joint effort…”
“It wasn’t,” I said calmly. “Good luck with the event.”
I hung up.
Word got around quickly. When Christine couldn’t deliver the same results, she had to admit the truth. To my surprise, people started reaching out to me. A few months later, I was baking custom cakes on the side for weddings and special events.
By Thanksgiving, we visited Dave’s parents for dinner. After the meal, Christine handed me a pie.
“I bought it from Riverside Market,” she said quietly. “Didn’t want to pretend I made it.”
It wasn’t quite an apology, but it was a start.
Later, Dave’s father pulled me aside. “In four decades of marriage,” he said, “I’ve never seen Christine admit she was wrong. You’re good for this family.”
On the drive home, Dave smiled. “My cousin wants you to make her wedding cake,” he said.
I smiled back. I didn’t need everyone’s approval. I had built something real—something meaningful and truly my own.
And sometimes, the best way to respond to being underestimated… is to rise above. Just like a perfect cake.