You tiptoe back to the bed, watching your mother for signs of life. All is well. You clamber up onto a box of old jeans that your mom doesn’t fit into since you ruined her body for her and then step across onto a taller box that should have gone to the thrift shop months ago. The sticky feet of your booties serve you well and you ascend the side of the bed with the sure-footed-ness of an Andes mountain goat.
You peep up over the side of the bed and there she is, the Cake Tyrant herself. You scowl and hike your little thunder thighs up over the edge. You stand up and waver a little, unsteady enough on a solid surface without the added challenge of unstable terrain. You look up at your mother’s sewing desk and there it is.
The Cake! Glistening with orange and white frosting in the sunlight, waiting, calling.
You glance down at your mother. She is laying directly between you and your sugary prize. She would. Mothers ruin everything. You stagger forward, drawn by the siren call of buttercream frosting, so rich you can already smell it.
You feel your balance start to shift and you hurry forward a few more steps, trying to catch yourself. You freeze at your mother’s side, your arms pinwheeling madly, but it’s too late, too late! You crash across your mother’s belly and she comes awake with a loud, “Oomph!”
She glares murder at you and you know it’ll be a miracle if you survive to adulthood in THIS household. She lifts you onto her hip and carries you away from your cake, slamming the door behind her with finality of a coffin’s lid. Howling, you are deposited in the play pen, that baby prison and neglect enabler, to wait for your party, and the cake, until you’ve paid your debt to society.