My mother-in-law mocked me for making my own wedding cake – then took credit for it in her speech

Dave leaned 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 sold in college? People loved them.”
He smiled, tracing my cheek with a finger. “Yeah, they did. And I love you for even considering it.”
“Then it’s settled,” I said, feeling a flutter of excitement. “I’m going to make our wedding cake.”

The next Sunday we dined at Dave’s parents’ huge house. Everything in their home screamed money — from the marble countertops to the original artworks on the walls. Dave’s father, Jim, was fairly affectionate but distant, lost in his business empire.
However, Christine was impossible to ignore.
“We’ve finalized the menu with the catering service,” I mentioned during dessert, trying to include them in the planning. “And I’ve decided to make the wedding cake myself.”
Christine’s fork rattled against her plate. “Sorry, what did you just say?”
“I’m going to make our cake,” I repeated, suddenly feeling like I was 16 again, defending a bad grade.

She laughed. “Honey! 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 making your own wedding cake? What is this, a picnic?”
Dave’s hand found my knee under the table. “Mom, Alice is an amazing baker.”
“Well,” Christine said, wiping her lips with a napkin, “I suppose when you grow up… less fortunate, it’s hard to shake that mentality.”
My cheeks burned, and I bit my tongue so hard it tasted like copper.
A heartbroken woman | Source: Pexels
“We’ll do it our way,” Dave said firmly. “No 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 arrived at the 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 create.”
I leaned in and kissed him, savoring the promise of our future together.

The weeks leading up to the wedding blurred into a whirlwind of buttercream and cake layers. I practiced baking techniques until my hands cramped. I baked test cakes and subjected our friends to taste tests. I watched countless tutorials on tiered cake structural support.

The night before the wedding, I assembled the cake in the kitchen of the venue. Three perfect tiers: vanilla bean filled with raspberry, covered with Swiss meringue buttercream and cascading flowers on one side.

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