The cake was paid for. Laura had the order details. She was the bride’s mother. None of that mattered when the baker checked the computer and told her there was one specific instruction: Do not release the cake to Laura.
“Just give them your name. Everything’s paid for.”
Those were Emma’s exact words when she sent me to pick up her wedding cake.
It was the morning before my daughter’s wedding, and I was running on coffee, four hours of sleep, and a handwritten list of errands long enough to make me regret volunteering for anything.
The bakery was my easiest stop.
Or so I thought.
I walked inside, gave the woman behind the counter the order number, and smiled.
“Laura.”
Her fingers stopped over the keyboard.
Then her smile disappeared.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t give you the cake.”
I laughed because I genuinely thought she was joking.
