My mother-in-law, Dolores, stood rigid and unyielding above our kitchen trash can, cradling my daughter’s elaborate unicorn birthday cake as if it were a biohazard. The three meticulously layered vanilla sponges, hours of my precious time and effort, teetered precariously, poised to plunge into a fetid abyss of coffee grounds and last night’s forgotten remnants. “She…
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