![\"\"](\"https:\/\/readmore.cx\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/11\/BUTTONI-USA-2-e1742767963719-1536x885-1-300x173.jpg\")
<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n
\u201cCranberry spice,\u201d I said. \u201cMascarpone frosting. I, uh, made it from scratch.\u201d<\/p>\n
She let out a short, dry laugh that never reached her eyes. \u201cYou and your theatrics, huh?\u201d she muttered, more to herself than to me.<\/p>\n
Then she took the cake from my hands without even really looking at me, walked to the far corner of the living room where Max, their golden retriever, lay curled on his bed, flipped open the lid, and set the entire thing down on the floor.<\/p>\n
\u201cAt least he\u2019ll enjoy it,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
Max sniffed the frosting once, then started licking it enthusiastically, his tail thumping against the wall. The cake I\u2019d spent hours making\u2014candied orange peel, three layers, careful piping\u2014disappeared under a dog\u2019s tongue while my parents watched like it was the most natural thing in the world.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t argue. I didn\u2019t raise my voice. I didn\u2019t ask why they couldn\u2019t just put it on the table like every other normal family. I felt my throat tighten, felt heat behind my eyes, but I refused to let the tears win.<\/p>\n