Since my pregnancy announcement, Daniel and I had been debating baby names. Ezra for boys and Quinn for girls were our final choices after months of consideration.
We wanted a little magic for ourselves by keeping the names confidential until the gender reveal.
Patricia shared them with her bridge group before you could say “oversharing.”
There’s nothing like meeting one of your MIL’s friends at the grocery store and getting a negative lecture about your “eccentric” baby names.
Patricia giggled when I challenged her.
I’m sorry. She said, “I forgot you wanted to keep it secret and everyone was asking!” “Don’t mind Margaret. She intended good. You chose odd names.”
I was really careful when we decided on a gender reveal party.
I had a list of everything I needed to control to make Patricia-proof. It had to be small so I could plan and do most of the work.
One night, I sighed in bed, worrying about everything that could go wrong.
“It would be easier to just not invite her,” I told Daniel.
“She means well,” Daniel replied, linking our fingers. Give her a chance. She won’t wreck a cake-cutting.”
My hubby. Always hopeful. Never giving up on individuals, even if they’ve committed spectacular sabotage.
A meticulously prepared event took place in the backyard that afternoon.
The maple trees diffused soft June sunlight, casting shadows on the elegantly set table.
The edges had pink and blue goodies. I served macarons with beautiful color gradients, cupcakes with small gender-neutral question mark picks, and complementary sparkling drinks.
Cake in the center. A tall white confection that held all our hopes and expectations.
Jenny, my sister-in-law, gave birth.
The cake had white icing, small sugar question marks, and a fun “Boy or Girl?” topper. It was flawless.
For a brief, glorious moment, I thought we could pass this milestone without drama.
Patricia arrived.
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She arrived 20 minutes late in a pink blouse (understated). She air-kissed me with her years-honed performative devotion and then focused on the cake like a heat-seeking missile.
“It’s so tall,” she added, mockingly concerned. Are you sure it’s stable?
Jenny, bless her, kept going. Mom, it’s fine. Personally, I drove it over.”
As I watched her circle the cake like a shark, looking for an area where the color was showing through the icing, I felt that old strain in my shoulders.
It was unbearable. Before she could ruin the occasion, I had to cut that cake.
“Well, let’s get to the main event,” I said, holding Patricia’s arm and leading her away. Gather around!
We gathered around with phones ready to record the moment we’d been waiting for. With knives in hand, Daniel and I positioned ourselves.
Patricia struck as we posed for Jenny’s shots.
“Oh no, let me just move the cake closer to you,” she offered.
I was horrified when she held the cake foundation. One flip of her wrist tilted the cake.
The nicely manicured lawn was covered in frosting and pink layers like a pastry crime scene.
Silence in the yard.
I stood still, blinking tears. We were supposed to shine now. She had one wonderful memory without her need to be the focus of attention. Patricia stood with her hands over her lips, hardly concealing her delighted grin.
Then Jenny laughed. A real, joyful laugh, not a nervous or forced one.
I glanced at her as tears fell freely. Was Jenny involved?
“I knew!” The Jenny crowed. Mom, you’re unpredictable, so I came prepared. I need time to get the real cake, everyone.”
Jenny ran and returned with another cake box.
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