A birthday cake loses a corner, and a family celebration finds its own shape.
An original fictional sample story.
The cake broke while I was turning it out. One corner stayed in the tin, and the rest landed on the cooling rack with an audible sigh. I stared at it. My youngest, watching from a safe distance, asked whether cakes were allowed to have only three corners.
It was my birthday. I had said I didn't need a fuss, which was true until I began making my own cake and discovered that I would have welcomed a small, well-organised fuss. My partner was due home late. The children had wrapped something upstairs using enough tape to suggest a structural engineering project.
I considered starting again. We had eggs, though not enough butter. A trip to the shop would mean shoes, coats, and a negotiation about sweets. The broken corner sat in the tin, smelling perfectly good. I loosened it with a spoon and divided it into three pieces.
We ate the evidence standing at the counter. My older child suggested covering the gap with icing. The younger one proposed a bridge. I liked the ambition of the bridge, but we settled on making the remaining shape into an island. The icing became a shoreline. A few berries became trees, according to a system only the children fully understood.
I sat down while they decorated, supervising the food and trying to leave the design alone. This required more concentration than baking had. They worked with grave purpose, moving berries half an inch and then moving them back. A thin line of icing crossed the table. Nobody seemed concerned.
When my partner arrived, he brought flowers and a bag of chips because the dinner plan had become unclear. We ate at the kitchen table with the cake waiting in the middle. The children presented their gift: a small notebook whose first pages they had already filled with pictures of things I liked. Tea, the sea, a badly drawn bicycle, and them.
Illustrative photograph for an original fictional story. Photo: David Trinks / Unsplash.
They had included themselves without hesitation. I loved that most. There was no need to explain why they belonged on the list, even on days when I was tired or cross or occupied with the business of getting everybody out of the house.
We put the candles on the island and turned out the overhead light. In their small glow, the missing corner looked intentional. After the singing, my youngest asked whether we could have the same cake next year. I said we could probably manage it. He nodded. “You know how to break it now.”
One email a week, early on Sunday. The week’s news, one recipe, one story, and a line or two from us. Everything here is free to read, whether or not you join.
Join the Den to take part in the conversation with other members. Every comment is read by a real person before it appears here.
Join the Den Already a member? Sign in