“You’re baking your own cake? What is this, a picnic?”
That’s what my mother-in-law said when I told her I planned to make my own wedding cake.
Then she added, with a smirk,
“Well, I suppose when you grow up poor, it’s hard to let go of that mindset.”
This is a woman who’s never worked a day in her life. She treats salon appointments like a job, wears designer heels to brunch, and refers to Target as “that warehouse store.” Her husband bankrolls it all. But my fiancé — her son — never wanted a dime from him.
So when he lost his job three months before the wedding, we made a promise: no debt, no handouts. We cut costs, trimmed the guest list, and I said, “I’ll bake the cake.”
It became my passion project.
Three tiers. Vanilla bean sponge, raspberry filling, buttercream frosting. I spent weekends perfecting the texture, practicing the piping, learning structural supports. My kitchen was chaos, but the final cake? Flawless.
Guests couldn’t stop raving. The venue coordinator said it looked like it came from an upscale boutique bakery. Even the photographer took extra shots of it “for her portfolio.”
Then came the speeches.
My mother-in-law took the mic, shimmering in her second outfit of the night, raised her champagne glass, and said with a laugh:
“Of course, I had to step in and make the cake. I couldn’t let my son have something… tacky on his big day!”
Applause. Laughter. Forks clinking.
I froze, mine mid-air.
She. Took. Credit.
I stood up. I was ready to speak, but I didn’t have to. Karma beat me to it.
Three guests — including the wedding planner, the florist, and a family friend who’d watched me whisk egg whites for weeks — walked right over to her. I couldn’t hear what was said, but I saw the look on her face shift from smug to stone.
Later, one of the guests came over and whispered,
“I told her you baked every inch of that cake. She tried to laugh it off. Didn’t go well.”
Patricia didn’t mention the cake again.
And when photos of it started circulating online, tagged with my name and the phrase “Bride-Baked Beauty”, she stayed very quiet.
Moral of the story?
Never underestimate a woman with a spatula and a reason.
