I knew my son’s birthday cake wasn’t perfect, but his smile made every sleepless hour worth it. When I carried it into his classroom, I had no idea someone had already decided it didn’t belong there.
The clock on the microwave glowed 1:47 a.m. when I finally stepped back from the kitchen table and looked at what I’d made. A lopsided orange dome sat on a chipped white plate, dotted with tiny fondant basketballs. They leaned in every direction as if they’d had a rough night too.
My hands were sticky, my back ached, and there was frosting in my hair.
But it was done.
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