By 8-o’clock, the anniversary cake had begun to lean, my husband had ignored eleven calls, and forty guests were hiding in our dark living room. When the front door finally opened, we shouted, « Surprise! » But Ethan wasn’t standing there. His mother was, holding out a phone with both hands.
At 7:58 p.m., I moved the chocolate cake away from the heating vent for the third time.
It was beginning to tilt.
Not enough for anyone else to notice, but I had spent two months planning that cake, and by then I was taking its behavior personally.
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