I hadn’t ordered a cake—that was the first thing that hit me when the delivery arrived. I’d already made one myself: Tom’s favorite, a rich chocolate hazelnut torte. Still, the driver insisted.
“Delivery for Tom Parker,” he said, handing over the receipt.
I hesitated but took the box inside, into a kitchen buzzing with guests, kids chasing our dog Max, and Tom smiling at the center of it all. I caught his eye and lifted the box, silently asking what it was. He shrugged casually.
“No idea. Maybe someone sent it?” he said, sounding innocent.
I opened it. Inside was a pristine white cake, elegant and clearly expensive. Written across the top in perfect icing were the words:
“Happy Birthday, Daddy! From your other princess 💋”
The room went quiet. Laughter and music carried on, but everything felt frozen.
“What does this mean?” I asked, holding the cake, my voice trembling.
Tom’s face went pale. He stammered, “Lisa, I—I don’t know. Must be a mistake…”
Before he could finish, a young woman’s voice cut through. It was the blonde I had seen with him at the pool. She stood confidently in the doorway.
“It’s not a joke, Tom. You said you’d tell her after the pool. I’m done waiting.”
She set a small envelope next to the cake.
“Paternity test,” she said. “In case you deny her too.”
I opened it: Tom Parker — Probability of Paternity: 99.98%.
Tom was speechless. The party ended. Friends left awkwardly, murmuring apologies. I slammed the bedroom door in his face.
“Lisa, it was a mistake. Just once—” I said calmly, “That wasn’t a mistake, Tom. That’s a child. Another life you’ve been hiding while I planned your birthday, paid the bills, and trusted you.”
I packed a bag that night and went to May’s house, taking Max with me. Over the following weeks, the truth unraveled: he’d been seeing the woman for over a year and secretly promised to support her child.
I filed for divorce. He begged, apologized, and offered everything. But some things can’t be repaired once broken. He lost his job, his marriage, and respect.
I rebuilt my life piece by piece—turned a spare room into a workspace, took freelance jobs, adopted another dog. Slowly, I smiled again.
That cake? It cost thirty dollars. But it gave me my freedom, my clarity, and my future.