(40 hours, 3 tiers, and a creased brown envelope of regret)
It was the first wedding cake I ever made.
A friend of mine was getting married and asked for a three-tier rich fruit cake.
I was honoured—and nervous.
This wasn’t just a Victoria sponge for a kids’ party.
This was a wedding.
I found a beautiful recipe and bought all the ingredients.
I remember the bill coming to £80.
And even back then, that felt like a lot.
But I told my friend (naively) that I’d do the whole cake for £200.
They handed over the money for the ingredients.
I poured everything I had into that cake.
Time.
Energy.
Love.
And honestly?
It was a triumph.
It took me 40 hours.
Which means I got paid about £3 an hour.
So much so that the morning after the wedding, I popped by the venue to collect the leftover tiers…
Only to find the kitchen staff tucking in.
They told me it was the nicest cake they’d ever tasted.
I took that as a compliment—though it felt a bit cheeky too.
But here’s the kicker:
I hadn’t been paid the rest.
My friend and his new wife jetted off on a Caribbean cruise…
…and I was at home as a single mum, cutting coupons from the newspaper to get a holiday for my kids.
I nagged.
And I chased.
And after three months, the remainder turned up—in a creased brown envelope.
No thank you.
No joy.
Just the vibe that they resented me for daring to ask for the full £200.
For a cake that people raved about.
That stung.
Not just the money (though that mattered—a lot).
But the feeling.
The being taken for granted.
The realisation that some people don’t see the value in what you do—even when you pour your heart into it.
It wasn’t the last time I’d be underestimated.
But it might’ve been the first time I realised something important:
If you don’t put value on your work, you can’t expect others to.
K.