…you cut the first slice yourself.”
I looked at my daughter-in-law, Jenna. She’d gone bright red. Everyone at the table was staring at her.
“Oh no,” she said, covering her face. “Leo, sweetheart, I said it’s not for you to eat first. Grandma has to cut it.”
My grandson, Leo, looked confused. “You said it’s not for her,” he insisted.
“I said the first piece is for her,” Jenna said, half laughing, half crying. “Oh my goodness.”
My son, Tom, put his head in his hands and started laughing too.
I picked up the knife and cut into the cake. Inside, the middle layer was baked bright blue. Written across the top in white frosting, hidden until it was sliced, were the words: “HAPPY 75TH, GRANDMA. YOU’RE GOING TO BE A GRANDMA AGAIN. IT’S A BOY.”
I put the knife down and burst into tears.
Jenna explained that she’d always felt awkward with me, and she’d never known how to show me she cared. She’d planned the cake for weeks. She’d wanted me to be the first person in the family to find out. She’d asked the bakery to keep it secret, and she’d warned Leo not to let anyone else eat the cake before me.
Leo had overheard half of the conversation and assumed the worst. He’d been trying to protect me.
My new grandson was born in March. His middle name is Leo, after his big brother, who’s still very proud of saving me from the “dangerous” cake.
