The cake was paid for, and I had all the order details. Yet when the baker checked her computer, she found an instruction: Do not release the cake to Laura.
“Just give them your name. Everything’s paid for.”
Those were Emma’s instructions when she asked me to collect her wedding cake.
The day before my daughter’s wedding, I was exhausted from errands and barely four hours of sleep. I expected the bakery to be an easy stop.
I gave the woman at the counter the order number.
“Laura.”
Her smile vanished as she checked the screen.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t give you the cake.”
Assuming she was joking, I laughed.
“I’m the bride’s mother.”
“I understand.”
“But I was specifically told not to release it to Laura.”
“What?”
“That’s right, ma’am. I was told not to give it to you.”
She checked the note again.
“There’s a note here from yesterday. It says the bride requested that the cake not be released to Laura.”
Confused, I immediately called Emma.
“Mom? What’s wrong?”
“Did you tell the bakery not to give me your cake?”
“What? Of course not.”
The baker frowned.
“That’s strange,” she said. “The note was added after someone called yesterday claiming to be the bride.”
Emma fell silent.
“Emma?”
“Mom, put her on the phone.”
I handed over my phone. After verifying the order details and Emma’s identity, the baker apologized and released the cake.
But I couldn’t ignore the mysterious instruction.
“Did the woman leave a number?”
“Yes.”
She read it aloud. It wasn’t mine, so I wrote it down.
Then the baker hesitated.
“Actually, I think I’ve seen her before.”
“Here?”
“A few weeks ago. She came in with a man.”
“What did he look like?”
Her description made my blood run cold.
Tall, gray at the temples, wearing a navy jacket and wedding ring, with a small scar near his left eyebrow.
My husband, David.
I drove home with Emma’s cake secured in my SUV, wondering why David had visited the bakery with another woman.
That evening, after we loaded the wedding decorations into our cars, I confronted him in the kitchen.
I placed the number on the counter.
“Do you recognize this?”
“No.”
“Someone used it when she called Emma’s bakery pretending to be Emma.”
He frowned.
“And apparently,” I continued, “you were there with her a few weeks ago.”
David froze.
“Laura, tomorrow is our daughter’s wedding. Please don’t do this tonight.”
“So you do know her.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
He glanced nervously toward the hallway.
“I can’t.”
I barely slept, convinced my husband was having an affair with a woman somehow connected to our daughter’s wedding.
The next morning, I pulled Emma into a dressing room at the venue.
“We need to talk.”
She was wearing her robe, her hair only half finished.
“Mom, what happened?”
“Your father knows the woman who called the bakery.”
Her expression changed.
“He was there with her.”
“Mom—”
“I think your father is having an affair.”
“Dad isn’t having an affair.”
Her immediate certainty startled me.
“How can you possibly know that?”
She looked away.
“Because I just know.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
David entered before I could question her further.
“I’m telling Emma about Laura,” I said.
“Laura, please.”
Emma faced him.
“Dad, you need to tell her.”
“You both know who she is?”
A venue employee appeared before he could answer.
“Sorry to interrupt. There’s a woman downstairs asking about the wedding cake.”
“She says her name is Laura.”
David went pale.
“She’s here?”
He hurried downstairs, and I followed.
A woman around our age stood near the entrance, wearing dark pants and a cream blouse, clutching her purse.
David stopped several feet away.
“You need to leave.”
She laughed bitterly.
“Still protecting her, David?”
“Is this her?” I demanded.
“Laura—”
I approached the stranger.
“How long have you been sleeping with my husband?”