I thought my daughter’s gender reveal would end with happy tears, blue or pink frosting, and fifty guests celebrating the baby.
Instead, ten minutes before we were supposed to cut the cake, the bakery called me in a panic and begged me not to serve it.
“Wait!”
My voice cracked across the backyard just as Ryan lowered the knife.
But I was too late.
The blade sliced through the white frosting, revealing bright blue filling between the layers.
“It’s a boy!” someone shouted.
The backyard exploded with cheers.
People clapped, party horns sounded, and blue confetti flew into the air.
My daughter, Emily, covered her mouth with both hands and immediately started crying.
I should have been crying too.
Instead, I stood beside the patio door with my phone pressed tightly against my ear.
The woman from the bakery was still speaking.
“Dette? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
My voice barely came out.
Emily had trusted me with one responsibility for the gender reveal.
The cake.
Neither she nor Ryan knew whether they were expecting a boy or a girl.
Their doctor had sealed the result inside an envelope, and I personally delivered it unopened to the bakery.
I had been ridiculously careful.
Emily had even laughed when I refused to let her touch the envelope.
“Mom, I’m not going to look.”
“You say that now.”
“I have self-control.”
“You ate three cookies in the car because you couldn’t wait until we got home.”
“That’s different.”
Ryan had laughed.
“She’s got you there.”
That conversation had happened ten days earlier.
Now it was Saturday, and fifty friends and relatives filled our backyard.
Pink and blue decorations covered the fence.
Balloons floated above the tables.
Emily looked radiant.
The cake sat in the center beneath a glass cover.
Everything had gone exactly according to plan.
Until my phone rang.
The bakery.
“Dette?”
“Yes?”
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