Nothing excessive.
Just enough to make the afternoon feel special.
As far as Lauren and I knew, only the bakery knew the baby’s sex.
Lauren and Mark had taken the doctor’s sealed envelope to the bakery themselves.
At least, that’s what I believed.
I didn’t know that Mark had already learned what the original envelope said.
The bakery had been extremely careful about the entire process.
A few days before the party, Lauren had laughed about how seriously everyone was treating the envelope.
“They guard those things like they’re classified documents,” she joked.
I told her that was probably a good thing.
The cake arrived that morning.
The baker delivered it personally.
She was a woman around Lauren’s age, with dark hair pulled into a loose knot and flour still dusting one sleeve of her shirt.
She carried the cake carefully with both hands while I held the gate open for her.
“Careful,” she warned. “It’s heavier than it looks.”
We placed it on the table beneath the covered patio.
The cake looked exactly the way Lauren had wanted it.
White frosting.
Simple piping around the edges.
Nothing on the outside revealed what was hidden inside.
The baker lingered for a moment after setting it down.
I assumed she was checking whether the table was level.
Then she thanked me and walked back toward her delivery van.
I didn’t think much of it.
By early afternoon, our backyard was full.
Family members gathered around the food table.
A few of Lauren’s closest friends took photographs.
Someone brought balloons, even though Lauren had specifically said she didn’t need any.
For the first time in years, my daughter seemed surrounded by uncomplicated happiness.
At least, that’s what it looked like.
