Nothing extravagant.
Just enough to make the afternoon feel special.
Only the bakery knew the gender.
Lauren and Mark had taken the doctor’s envelope there themselves.
At least, that was what I believed.
The bakery had been careful about the process. Lauren had laughed about how serious everyone was acting.
“They guard those envelopes like they’re classified documents,” she joked a few days before the party.
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 with both hands while I held the gate open.
“Careful,” she said. “It’s heavier than it looks.”
We placed it on the table beneath the covered patio.
The cake looked exactly how Lauren wanted it.
White frosting.
Simple piping around the edges.
Nothing on the outside gave away what was inside.
The baker lingered for a moment after setting it down.
I assumed she was checking that the table was level.
Then she thanked me and walked back toward her delivery van.
I didn’t think much about it.
By early afternoon, the backyard was full.
Family members gathered around the food table.
A few of Lauren’s closest friends took pictures.
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 was how it looked.
Mark stayed close to her.
He kept one hand near the small of her back as they greeted everyone.
Lauren smiled often, but I noticed she kept touching the side of her stomach.
She had done that during the entire pregnancy.
Sometimes it was affection.
Sometimes it was reassurance.
I could usually tell the difference.
That afternoon, I wasn’t sure.
Eventually, someone called out that we should cut the cake before the sun disappeared behind the trees.
Everyone gathered around.
Lauren laughed nervously.
Mark handed her the knife.
