PART 1: DO NOT RELEASE THE CAKE
The cake was paid for, and I had every order detail. Yet when the baker checked her computer, she found an instruction: Do not release the cake to Laura.
“Just give them your name. Everything’s paid for.”
Those were Emma’s instructions when she asked me to pick up her wedding cake.
The day before my daughter’s wedding, I was worn out from errands and running on barely four hours of sleep. I expected the bakery to be an easy stop.
I gave the woman at the counter the order number.
“Laura.”
Her smile disappeared as she looked at the screen.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t give you the cake.”
Assuming she was joking, I laughed.
“I’m the bride’s mother.”
“I understand.”
“But I was specifically told not to release it to Laura.”
“What?”
“That’s right, ma’am. I was told not to give it to you.”
She checked the note again.
“There’s a note here from yesterday. It says the bride requested that the cake not be released to Laura.”
Confused, I called Emma right away.
“Mom? What’s wrong?”
“Did you tell the bakery not to give me your cake?”
“What? Of course not.”
The baker frowned.
“That’s strange,” she said. “The note was added after someone called yesterday claiming to be the bride.”
Emma went quiet.
“Emma?”
“Mom, put her on the phone.”
I handed over my phone. After confirming the order details and Emma’s identity, the baker apologized and released the cake.
But I couldn’t shake the mysterious instruction.
“Did the woman leave a number?”
“Yes.”
She read it aloud. It wasn’t mine, so I wrote it down.
Then the baker hesitated.
“Actually, I think I’ve seen her before.”
“Here?”
“A few weeks ago. She came in with a man.”
“What did he look like?”
Her description turned my blood cold.
Tall, gray at the temples, in a navy jacket and a wedding ring, with a small scar near his left eyebrow.
My husband, David.
I drove home with Emma’s cake secured in my SUV, wondering why David had visited the bakery with another woman.
That evening, after we loaded the wedding decorations into our cars, I confronted him in the kitchen.
I set the number on the counter.
“Do you recognize this?”
“No.”
“Someone used it when she called Emma’s bakery pretending to be Emma.”
He frowned.
“And apparently,” I went on, “you were there with her a few weeks ago.”
David froze.
“Laura, tomorrow is our daughter’s wedding. Please don’t do this tonight.”
“So you do know her.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
He glanced nervously toward the hallway.
“I can’t.”
I barely slept, convinced my husband was having an affair with a woman somehow tied to our daughter’s wedding.
The next morning, I pulled Emma into a dressing room at the venue.
“We need to talk.”
She was in her robe, her hair only half done.
“Mom, what happened?”
“Your father knows the woman who called the bakery.”
Her expression changed.
“He was there with her.”
“Mom—”
“I think your father is having an affair.”
“Dad isn’t having an affair.”
Her instant certainty startled me.
“How can you possibly know that?”
She looked away.
“Because I just know.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
David walked in before I could press her.
“I’m telling Emma about Laura,” I said.
“Laura, please.”
Emma turned to him.
“Dad, you need to tell her.”
“You both know who she is?”
A venue employee appeared before he could answer.
“Sorry to interrupt. There’s a woman downstairs asking about the wedding cake.”
“She says her name is Laura.”
David went pale.
“She’s here?”
He rushed downstairs, and I followed.
A woman around our age stood near the entrance in dark pants and a cream blouse, clutching her purse.
David stopped several feet away.
“You need to leave.”
She laughed bitterly.
“Still protecting her, David?”
“Is this her?” I demanded.
“Laura—”
I walked up to the stranger.
“How long have you been sleeping with my husband?”
She stared, then laughed in disbelief.
“Oh my God. You think I’m his mistress?”
“Then why does my husband know you? Why were you at my daughter’s bakery with him?”
“This isn’t the time.”
“No, David. You’ve had long enough.”
She turned to me.
“Your husband and I are not having an affair.”
“Then why does he know you?”
She glanced at Emma, who had followed us downstairs.
“That’s not the question you should be asking.”
Someone spoke behind me.
“Don’t.”
Ryan, Emma’s fiancé, stood near the staircase.
The woman’s expression suddenly softened.
“Ryan.”
He stiffened.
“You know her?”
“My dad knows her too.”
“Your father made sure I disappeared.”
“Stop,” Ryan said.
“What is going on?” I demanded.
David touched my arm.
“Laura, we should go somewhere private.”
I pulled away.
“No. Last night, you let me think you were sleeping with this woman. Emma obviously knows something. Ryan knows her. Nobody is taking me into another room and telling me to be patient.”
The woman faced me.
“You want to know why David knows me?”
“Yes.”
“Because your daughter is marrying my son.”
I stared at Ryan, stunned.
“No.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“She’s my biological mother.”
