I’m Hannah, and my wedding to Luke was our creation, funded alone despite his rich parents. I chose to bake our cake, but his mom, Diane, ridiculed me, only to steal credit at the reception. When we met, Diane scanned my secondhand scarf, asking, “You’re in… clerical work?” with a sneer. “I’m a social media planner,” I said. She nodded, “How sweet.” Luke held me later, “I love your passion.” That’s when I knew he was mine. Before the wedding, Luke’s agency downsized, squeezing our budget. Over pasta, he said, “My parents could pitch in.” I shook my head, “Diane would chain us.”
We opted for simplicity—no loans, no control. “I’ll make the cake,” I said. Luke paused, “That’s huge.” I grinned, “I baked for my sorority. I’ve got this.” He kissed me, “You’re a star.” At his parents’ opulent home for lunch, I shared, “I’m baking the cake.” Diane laughed, “A homemade cake? For a wedding?” Luke said, “Hannah’s gifted.” She smirked, “When you’re from less, you settle.” I bit my lip. “I’ll hire a pro,” she offered. Luke refused, “We’re doing it ourselves.” Driving home, he said, “Your cake will shine.”
I tested flavors, practicing designs until dawn. The night before, I built a three-tiered almond cake with apricot filling, swirled with buttercream vines. The venue’s manager said, “This is art!” I beamed. On our wedding day, Luke and I prepped together. “My husband-to-be?” I teased, in my consignment dress. The ceremony was soulful, our vows true. At the reception, the cake stunned: “It’s breathtaking!” “Who’s the baker?” Luke’s brother asked. Luke said, “Hannah made it.” Guests raved, some snapping photos. Then Diane took the mic, “I baked this cake—only perfection for my son!”
My stomach twisted. She’d claimed my effort. I stood, but Luke whispered, “Her lie won’t hold.” I sat, stung, as she took bows. In our suite, I sobbed, “She took it!” Luke said, “She craves glory. You don’t. Wait.” Next day, Diane called, “Mrs. Brooks wants a cake for her gala. I need you.” I chuckled, “You made it, didn’t you?” She muttered, “I inspired it.” I hung up. Her lie collapsed, and Mrs. Brooks hired me, sparking my baking venture. At a family picnic, Diane gave me a store-bought cookie, “From the deli.” It was something. Luke’s dad, Bill, said, “You’ve shifted her.” As Luke drove home, he said, “My cousin wants your cake.” I smiled, my work radiant, no matter her grab. Share this tale—it might encourage someone to rise above stolen praise.
