From the day I married Tom, I knew I didn’t belong in his family. They made it clear. His mother, Alice, called me “simple,” and his brother, Jack, mocked me every chance he got.
“Cake decorating must be exhausting,” he’d sneer. “All that frosting and free time!” If I defended myself, he’d grin. “Relax, it’s a joke.” But we both knew it wasn’t.
Tom always smoothed it over. “They don’t mean it, Jackie,” he’d say. But their cold glances, whispers, and exclusion were impossible to ignore.
Baking became my escape. Cakes were my way of showing love—my silent attempt to earn their acceptance. It never worked. No matter how perfect my desserts were, I stayed the outsider.
One evening, Jack texted me out of nowhere: “Hey, Jacqueline, can you make a cake for my birthday this weekend? Plain. Nothing fancy.”
For once, his words were polite. Maybe it was a chance to bridge the gap. I baked my best—a three-tier cake, simple yet elegant, with blue frosting and delicate fondant flowers.
When I arrived at the event, my stomach dropped. “Bon Voyage!” banners hung everywhere. Photos of Tom and another woman—laughing, holding hands—covered the room. This wasn’t a birthday party. It was Tom’s going-away celebration… with his mistress.
Jack smirked. “Nice cake. Fits the theme, don’t you think?” Tom approached, hands in his pockets. “We’ve grown apart. I’m moving to Europe. With her.”
The betrayal crushed me. Everyone knew. They’d planned this behind my back. But I stayed calm.
“You’re right, Jack,” I said, forcing a smile. “The cake is perfect for this occasion.” I sliced pieces for Tom, his mistress, and Jack. Each slice carried polite but sharp words, leaving them stunned. Then I left.
Days later, Tom’s mistress posted photos of the party. His boss saw them, realized Tom had lied about his reasons for moving, and fired him. The mistress left him, too.
Tom texted me: “I made a mistake.”
I sent him a photo of my empty cake stand. “All out of second chances.”
And just like that, I felt free.
