“I’m sorry,” the woman behind the bakery counter said. “I can’t give you the cake.”
I laughed. I honestly thought she was joking.chfr
“I’m the bride’s mother,” I said.
“I understand, ma’am.” She looked back at her computer screen. Her smile was gone. “But I’ve been specifically told not to release it to Laura.”
“What?”
“There’s a note on the order.” She turned the monitor a little so I could see it. “Do not release cake to Laura. Added yesterday afternoon.”
I stood there holding my car keys and a cardboard tray with two coffees on it, and I felt the floor tilt under me.
My name is Laura Bennett. I’m fifty-six years old. I’ve been married to David for thirty-one years. And the day before my only daughter’s wedding, a stranger at a bakery told me I wasn’t allowed to pick up her cake.
