When my fiancé Dave and I planned our wedding, we did everything ourselves refusing a cent from his wealthy parents. We wanted love, not debt. I even decided to bake our wedding cake. But when I shared this at dinner, his mom, Christine, laughed like I’d just said I’d wear paper bags as shoes.“Oh honey, no,” she smirked. “This isn’t a church picnic.”I smiled through gritted teeth while Dave stood by me.
We stuck to our plan. I spent weeks perfecting that cake three tiers, hand-piped flowers, raspberry filling. The night before our wedding, I assembled it myself at the venue. It looked like it belonged in a magazine.The wedding was magical. During the reception, guests gushed over the cake. “Where did you get it?” they asked.Before I could answer, Christine grabbed the mic.“Of course, I had to step in and make the cake,” she said with a smug smile.
