Chapter 2 - The Aftermath in the Kitchen
The drive back to our house was silent, save for the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers clearing a light June drizzle.
When we arrived at our modest, cozy two-story house on the oak-lined suburban street, Wren ran straight upstairs to her bedroom, her door closing with a soft, heartbreaking click.
I stood in our warm, brightly lit kitchen.
The remnants of Wren’s three-day project were still everywhere. A light dusting of powdered sugar sat on the quartz countertop. A pair of pink piping tips soaked in a bowl of soapy water near the sink. On the kitchen island lay a parchment paper sheet covered in small, practicing frosting stars—the ones that hadn't been quite perfect enough for her aunt's cake.
I leaned against the island, burying my face in my hands as tears of pure, furious grief finally spilled over my eyelashes.
Calder walked into the kitchen behind me. He didn't speak. He simply wrapped his broad arms around my waist, pulling my back against his chest, resting his chin on my shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he murmured into my neck. "I'm so sorry I let them treat you and Wren like that for so long."
"You gave up your whole career, Calder," I whispered, turning around in his arms to look up into his tired, handsome face. "Your grandfather built that company. You spent twelve years turning it into a multi-million-dollar firm. They are going to ruin it without you."
"Let them," Calder said, his jaw tightening. "I stayed because I thought the money would secure Wren’s college fund. I stayed because I wanted my father’s approval. But tonight, when I saw my mother throw our daughter’s heart into a trash can, I realized something."
"What?"
"My father's approval isn't worth a dime," he said softly. "And no amount of money is worth teaching our daughter that she has to accept cruelty from people just because they share her blood."
A soft knock sounded at the top of the stairs.
We both looked up. Wren was standing on the landing, wearing her oversized pajamas, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, holding her favorite stuffed bear against her chest.
"Mom? Dad?" she called down weakly.
"We're here, honey," I said, stepping out of Calder’s embrace. "Come down."
Wren walked down the stairs, her socks muffling her footsteps. She looked at the piping tips in the sink, then looked at her father.
"Dad..." she whimpered, her voice cracking. "Is it my fault? Did I ruin your job because I brought the cake?"
Calder dropped to both knees on the kitchen floor, reaching out to grab both of Wren’s small hands.
"Wren, look at me," Calder commanded gently, waiting until her wet brown eyes locked onto his. "Listen to me very carefully. You made a beautiful, incredible cake. You showed love to people who don't know how to receive it. That is your strength, sweetheart. Never, ever let bitter people make you ashamed of being kind."
"But your job—"
"I quit my job because my bosses were bullies," Calder smiled, a genuine, warm smile breaking across his face. "And your dad happens to be a very talented guy. I’ll build something new. Something ours."
Wren sniffled, a tiny, tentative smile finally breaking through her tears. She leaned forward, burying her face into Calder’s shoulder, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"I saved one slice," she whispered into his shirt.
Calder pulled back, blinking. "What?"
"I saved one slice," Wren repeated, wiping her nose with her sleeve. "Before we left, I cut a practice slice from the back to make sure the strawberry filling was thick enough. It’s in the fridge here."
I let out a wet, half-laugh, half-sob.
Calder looked at me, his eyes shining with unhedged devotion. "Well, what are we waiting for? Get three forks."
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Ten minutes later, the three of us sat at our kitchen table under the warm hanging lamp, eating a single, perfectly moist slice of vanilla bean cake with fresh strawberry filling.
It was, without a doubt, the best cake I had ever tasted.
