“Since you’re baking anyway, make us three cakes for the anniversary,” my sister-in-law demanded. My husband was the first to ask when she was going to pay.
“Since you’re baking anyway, make us three cakes for the anniversary,” my sister-in-law demanded. My husband was the first to ask when she was going to pay.
Lyudmila had already picked out the fillings, decorations, and delivery time. Only one minor detail remained to be clarified: why I was supposed to bake three expensive cakes for free.
By day, I worked as a merchandise manager at a glassware store, and in the evenings, I took on a few private cake orders. I ran my business legally as an independent contractor, kept an open portfolio online, but physically couldn’t handle high volumes. Lyudmila, on the other hand, was a pro at turning someone else’s labor into her own project with the confident efficiency of someone who had already counted the profits.
“And when are you going to pay the deposit?” came my husband’s calm voice. Zhenya worked on elevator repairs, and he usually managed to stop his sister’s schemes before they could crush anyone in the vicinity.
Lyudmila threw her hands up in indignation, her bracelets clattering loudly.
“What deposit, Zhenya?! Are you out of your mind? This is for Mom! Marina is glued to the oven every evening anyway, is it really that hard for her to make an effort for the family? Charging family members for stuff is an absolute new low!”
I looked at her with a slight smirk. They say that no good deed goes unpunished. That’s a lie. It’s other people’s good deeds—the ones they try to pull off at your expense—that get punished.
“Lyuda,” I put my phone down. “Those need complex sugarcraft, fresh berries, and edible gold leaf. Just the ingredients, decorations, and packaging will cost twelve thousand rubles minimum. That’s three evenings of prep and almost the entire Friday for assembly and decorating. And that’s without paying me for my labor. Family ties are sacred, of course, but at the supermarket checkout, they don’t accept a DNA test instead of a bank card.”
“I don’t get it, are you refusing to give Mom a proper celebration?!” my sister-in-law flared up indignantly.
“I’d be happy to give Tamara Pavlovna a gift from Zhenya and me,” I replied in an even tone. “One cake. Small, but made with the finest ingredients. But if you’re that desperate for two more free masterpieces for your guests, then you’ll spend three days as my assistant: buying groceries, washing equipment, packing boxes, and delivering orders. For free, in the name of the family. Deal?”
“My labor is worth money!” Lyudmila spat out, grabbed her purse, and slammed the door so hard the hallway mirror rattled.
That was the end of the conversation, but the real surprises were yet to come.
On the morning of the anniversary, my husband’s cousin sent me a screenshot with a message: “Marina, are these your cakes? I transferred ten thousand to Lyuda. She said you’re baking for her now.”
I opened the newly created “Sweet Lyuda” page and froze. Staring back at me were my own photographs, lovingly downloaded from my public portfolio. Right next to them were someone else’s prices, confident promises to take wedding orders, an announcement about a grand tasting at Mom’s anniversary, and a post about future cooperation with a local cafe.
I silently took screenshots of the page, prepared the original photo files with their date metadata, and opened our chat history where Lyudmila had demanded three free cakes strictly “as a gift for Mom.”
Seeing this, Zhenya reached for his phone, intending to tell his sister everything he thought of her stunt. I gently caught his hand.
— No. Let her explain to everyone herself who’s actually baking the cakes for her bakery.
I arrived at the restaurant on time, carefully carrying a delicate honey cake with fresh berries in a box—a personal gift for my mother-in-law.
The banquet hall was decorated with balloons. Tamara Pavlovna, looking elegant and happy, was receiving congratulations. And on a separate silk-draped table, a display was set up. In the center was an empty stand, clearly waiting for my honey cake. Flanking it were two cheap, store-bought cakes. Unpackaged and tied with identical ribbons, the store-bought cakes looked extra suspicious—like they were wearing a disguise for someone else’s party.
I silently placed my gift in the center of the table. Lyudmila, bustling around nearby in a sequined dress, immediately opened the box herself, moved the honey cake to the center stand, and covered it with a tall cake dome.
“Since you’re baking anyway, make us three cakes for the anniversary,” my sister-in-law demanded. My husband was the first to ask when she was going to pay.
Lyudmila had already picked out the fillings, decorations, and delivery time. Only one minor detail remained to be clarified: why I was supposed to bake three expensive cakes for free.
By day, I worked as a merchandise manager at a glassware store, and in the evenings, I took on a few private cake orders. I ran my business legally as an independent contractor, kept an open portfolio online, but physically couldn’t handle high volumes. Lyudmila, on the other hand, was a pro at turning someone else’s labor into her own project with the confident efficiency of someone who had already counted the profits.
“And when are you going to pay the deposit?” came my husband’s calm voice. Zhenya worked on elevator repairs, and he usually managed to stop his sister’s schemes before they could crush anyone in the vicinity.
Lyudmila threw her hands up in indignation, her bracelets clattering loudly.
“What deposit, Zhenya?! Are you out of your mind? This is for Mom! Marina is glued to the oven every evening anyway, is it really that hard for her to make an effort for the family? Charging family members for stuff is an absolute new low!”
I looked at her with a slight smirk. They say that no good deed goes unpunished. That’s a lie. It’s other people’s good deeds—the ones they try to pull off at your expense—that get punished.
“Lyuda,” I put my phone down. “Those need complex sugarcraft, fresh berries, and edible gold leaf. Just the ingredients, decorations, and packaging will cost twelve thousand rubles minimum. That’s three evenings of prep and almost the entire Friday for assembly and decorating. And that’s without paying me for my labor. Family ties are sacred, of course, but at the supermarket checkout, they don’t accept a DNA test instead of a bank card.”
“I don’t get it, are you refusing to give Mom a proper celebration?!” my sister-in-law flared up indignantly.
“I’d be happy to give Tamara Pavlovna a gift from Zhenya and me,” I replied in an even tone. “One cake. Small, but made with the finest ingredients. But if you’re that desperate for two more free masterpieces for your guests, then you’ll spend three days as my assistant: buying groceries, washing equipment, packing boxes, and delivering orders. For free, in the name of the family. Deal?”
“My labor is worth money!” Lyudmila spat out, grabbed her purse, and slammed the door so hard the hallway mirror rattled.
That was the end of the conversation, but the real surprises were yet to come.
On the morning of the anniversary, my husband’s cousin sent me a screenshot with a message: “Marina, are these your cakes? I transferred ten thousand to Lyuda. She said you’re baking for her now.”
I opened the newly created “Sweet Lyuda” page and froze. Staring back at me were my own photographs, lovingly downloaded from my public portfolio. Right next to them were someone else’s prices, confident promises to take wedding orders, an announcement about a grand tasting at Mom’s anniversary, and a post about future cooperation with a local cafe.
I silently took screenshots of the page, prepared the original photo files with their date metadata, and opened our chat history where Lyudmila had demanded three free cakes strictly “as a gift for Mom.”
Seeing this, Zhenya reached for his phone, intending to tell his sister everything he thought of her stunt. I gently caught his hand.
— No. Let her explain to everyone herself who’s actually baking the cakes for her bakery.
I arrived at the restaurant on time, carefully carrying a delicate honey cake with fresh berries in a box—a personal gift for my mother-in-law.
The banquet hall was decorated with balloons. Tamara Pavlovna, looking elegant and happy, was receiving congratulations. And on a separate silk-draped table, a display was set up. In the center was an empty stand, clearly waiting for my honey cake. Flanking it were two cheap, store-bought cakes. Unpackaged and tied with identical ribbons, the store-bought cakes looked extra suspicious—like they were wearing a disguise for someone else’s party.
I silently placed my gift in the center of the table. Lyudmila, bustling around nearby in a sequined dress, immediately opened the box herself, moved the honey cake to the center stand, and covered it with a tall cake dome.
The continuation is in the first c0mment
