My mother-in-law, Christine, has never worked a day in her life and it shows in ways that make my teeth grind. The first time I met her three years ago, she’d assessed me like I was a questionable purchase. Her eyes raked over my department store dress, lingering on my old shoes.
“So you’re in… customer service?” she asked, somehow making it sound like I cleaned toilets for a living. “I’m a marketing coordinator,” I corrected gently. “How sweet. I suppose someone needs to do those jobs.”
Dave had squeezed my hand, offering a silent apology for his mother’s behavior. Later that night, he held me close and whispered, “I love that you work hard and care about things that matter.” That was the moment I knew I’d marry him someday. Three months before our wedding, Dave lost his job when his company downsized. We were already stretching every dollar for the wedding, determined not to start our marriage in debt.
“We could ask my parents,” Dave suggested half-heartedly one night as we reviewed our budget at our tiny kitchen table. I looked up from the spreadsheet. “Really?? Think again!” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “God no! Mom would lord it over us for the next decade.” “Then we cut back. We make it work.” “Yeah, we’ll do it our way. No debt, no guilt, no strings.” “And no loans from your mom!”
He laughed. “Especially no loans from her!” Then his eyes softened a little. “This is why I love you, Alice. You never take the easy way out.” That night, as I stared at the ceiling, an idea took root. “I’ll bake our wedding cake myself.” Dave propped himself up on one elbow. “Are you sure? That’s a lot of pressure.” “I’ve been baking since I was 10!” I reminded him. “Remember those cookies I used to sell in college? People loved them.” He smiled, tracing my cheek with his finger. “They did. And I love you for even considering it.” “It’s decided then,” I said, feeling a flutter of excitement. “I’m making our wedding cake.”
The following Sunday, we had dinner at Dave’s parents’ sprawling house. Everything about their home screamed money—from the marble countertops to the original artwork on the walls. Jim, Dave’s father, was warm enough but distant, and lost in his business empire. Christine, however, was impossible to ignore. “We’ve finalized the menu with the caterer,” I mentioned over dessert, trying to include them in the planning. “And I’ve decided to bake the wedding cake myself.”
Christine’s fork clattered against her plate. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?” “I’m baking our cake,” I repeated, suddenly feeling like I was 16 again, defending a poor grade. She laughed. “Oh, honey! No. You can’t be serious.” “I am,” I said, straightening my shoulders. “I’ve been testing recipes for weeks.” Christine exchanged glances with Jim. “You’re baking your own wedding cake? What is this, a picnic in the park?” Dave’s hand found my knee under the table. “Mom, Alice is an amazing baker.” “Well,” Christine said, dabbing her lips with her napkin, “I suppose when you grow up… less fortunate, it’s hard to let go of that mindset.”
My cheeks burned and I bit my tongue so hard I tasted copper. “We’re doing this our way,” Dave said firmly. “Without going into debt.” Christine sighed dramatically. “At least let me call Jacques. He does all the society weddings in town. Consider it my gift.” “We’re not taking money from you, Mom. Not for the cake… not for anything.” The drive home was quiet. When we pulled into our apartment complex, Dave turned to me. “You’re going to make the most beautiful cake anyone has ever seen, Alice. And it’s going to taste better than anything Jacques could ever create.” I leaned over and kissed him, tasting the promise of our future together.
The weeks before the wedding blurred together in a storm of buttercream and cake layers. I practiced piping techniques until my hands cramped. I baked test cakes and subjected our friends to taste tests. I watched countless tutorials on structural support for tiered cakes.
The night before the wedding, I assembled the cake in the venue’s kitchen. Three perfect tiers: vanilla bean with raspberry filling covered in swiss meringue buttercream with piped florals cascading down one side. I stood back, hardly believing that I, Alice who grew up helping her mom clip coupons, had created something so beautiful. “You’ve outdone yourself!” the venue manager whispered with wide eyes. “This looks like it came from a fancy bakery downtown.”