I’m Ava, 25, and baking is my soul’s language. When my brother and his fiancée hired me for their wedding cake, I gave it everything, expecting fairness. They stiffed me, but Grandma’s clever comeback showed them respect is sweeter than any dessert.
Cakes are my love, a passion turned career at a bakery. My dad scoffed, “Baking won’t pay bills.” But my family supported me, gifting small tokens for my bakes—cards, cash, love. When my brother, Noah, 23, got engaged to Mia, I had doubts. “They’re rushing,” I told Mom over tea. “Mia’s intense.” She sighed. “Noah loves her. That’s enough.” I nodded, wanting to believe. Their wedding plans were lavish, all dreamy details. They asked for a cake. “It’s three tiers for 75,” I said. “I’ll do it at home for $400, not the bakery’s $1200.” Noah smiled. “We’ll cover it, Ava.” I planned a tasting, paying for supplies. “Pick your flavor,” I said. Mia quipped, “I thought you’d choose.” I hid my frown, setting up a warm tasting with samples.
They adored the peach cream cake. “It’s perfect,” Noah said. Mia nodded, and I felt valued, hoping this would strengthen our bond. I sent sketches, baked for days, and crafted the cake on their wedding morning—three tiers of fluffy frosting and fruit. I delivered it, heart full. They smiled, but no payment followed. At the reception, Noah whispered, “You’re charging us? Family’s free.” I blinked. “This took work, Noah.” Mia chimed in, “It’s a gift, Ava. Be kind.” I was speechless. Grandma Ellen, elegant and fierce, overheard. During speeches, she stood, wine glass raised. “I planned a Tuscany honeymoon for Noah and Mia,” she said. Guests clapped, but she paused. “Generosity needs gratitude. I may change my mind.”
Silence fell. Grandma looked at me, then the cake. “Family honors family,” she said, sitting. Noah found me later, an envelope in hand. “Here’s $500,” he said. “Mia called it a gift, but I knew it was wrong.” I took it. “You thought I’d stay quiet,” I said. He winced. Mia approached, her smile forced. “We didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said. “I bake because I love it,” I replied. “You disrespected that.” She looked away. At dessert, Grandma spoke. “Generosity isn’t owed,” she said. “Cross it, and I’ll cut trust funds too.” She hugged me. “No more family discounts, Ava. Your trust fund’s for culinary school.” Noah texts regularly now. Mia promotes my work. At their picnic, Mia gave me a gift card, muttering, “Your tarts were good.” It was respect, not love, but I’ll take it.
