Have Your Cake and Eat it, Too

On her fifth day alone, she woke up, got dressed, moved to the kitchen, and started to prepare. It’s what she did every year on his birthday. She knew making the German chocolate cake—his favorite and her least favorite—would be emotional. But she thought he might come back because he missed the cake, missed her annual love letter as birthday greeting, missed her.

Waking up alone on his birthday would be sad for him, she thought. She pushed aside the idea that he wasn’t actually alone. No, that isn’t what it’s about. The problem was, she really didn’t know what it was about. He left abruptly, without warning, without having fought or disagreed on anything, without an explanation. So her brain made up a girlfriend, one who was prettier, not so emotional, not so needy. One who wouldn’t make German chocolate cake for a person who wasn’t there.

For fourteen years and two months and six days, they had been two. For fourteen years and two months and six days, they ate together, they slept together, they laughed together.

On her first day alone, she didn’t know how to behave. She didn’t know how to act. Twice, she called out to him to look at something. Once, she went into his office expecting him to be there. But he would never be in there again.

She set the oven for 375, and then mixed the sugar, flour, cocoa, baking powder and soda. She could have gone to the bakery each year and plopped down $35 for a cake, but the act of making it meant something to her. It was a sacrifice. It was her telling him that she put her needs aside for his.

She mixed the eggs, buttermilk, oil, and vanilla by hand. As she whisked, she went over the last fourteen years, two months, and six days and tried to find the red flags. She thought about the trips to California and Barcelona, the magic of traveling with someone who seemed to know every good restaurant, every low-key tourist trap. He led the way, choosing the destination, when they would go, what they would see. He said she was too indecisive to do all that.

She mixed the wet and dry ingredients together, stirred in a cup of boiling water, and dumped the thin batter into a pan. When she put it in the oven, she stepped back, sighed, and wondered what in the world she was doing. He wasn’t coming back. Not on his birthday, not ever. But traditions shouldn’t be broken, even if their marriage was broken. She’d persevere, finish the cake, and bring it to her neighbors who loved coconut. I’m a good person, she said out loud. I am lovable, I am funny, I am capable. She started crying then, small sobs that made her nose run. He hated when she cried and would probably get some small satisfaction to know that she was crying now.

She took a deep breath and continued, mixing together brown sugar, granulated sugar, butter, egg yolks, and evaporated milk, setting the mixture on the stove to boil. She stirred and stirred and thought of him, of what he was doing right now, what he was doing three weeks ago, what he will do in the future. She knew it was no longer her problem, but she still obsessed about him.

Even though she had made this cake fourteen times, she still had to look at the recipe. It felt complicated to her, but everything did at that moment. Why the fuck did he leave her? He gave no answers, no explanation. Just a quick goodbye after dropping the news that he had an apartment ready for him.

Melt butter. Stir in cocoa powder. Alternately add powdered sugar and milk, beating to spreading consistency. Stir in vanilla.

She followed the steps carefully, trying to be as precise as possible. She wasn't much of a baker; this cake was the only thing she ever made for him, and it had to be perfect. Maybe she could go to his apartment and leave it on his windowsill like in some old cartoon. She imagined the aroma of the fresh-baked cake reaching him, beckoning him. She pictured him floating on air, enticed by the smell and the knowledge a cake was out there for him.

She put the cake on a pan and began spreading the frosting, taking care to cover every spot, to keep it smooth. She tried to remember the last time she laughed. Probably six days ago, when she had no idea what was coming. He was so funny, and they laughed so much together, even if it was always at his jokes, sometimes at her expense.

She covered the cake in coconut shreds, recoiling in horror at the thought of eating coconut. She shouldn’t have been surprised that it was his favorite cake.

She stood back to admire her work. It looked good. It smelled good. He would have loved this. He would have eaten a slice, probably two. She’d give him a heartfelt card, a carefully chosen gift, and a kiss. She would be happy. She thought about him celebrating his birthday with someone else and started crying again. Her heart hurt, her soul hurt, and she was angry with him for that. There was no way to tell him. He blocked her number because she was texting him so much. It didn’t seem to bother him to ghost her after fourteen years, two months, and six days of love, happiness, and laughter.

On her fifth day alone, she sat at her kitchen table with a German chocolate cake and a fork. She thought of this as an act of defiance, eating his birthday cake without him. She would eat every bite of it and then email him a picture of her crumbs and shredded coconut on the otherwise empty plate. Then she would go into her bathroom, throw up, and begin the process of forgetting him.