She had already burnt the cake twice. He would be here in an hour and she had yet to make the perfect birthday cake. The doorbell rang. Guests were arriving. She struggled to whip the cake batter once more. Everyone was there when he arrived, cheers and hugs and tears. They all sat down to dinner. She could smell burning cake. She rushed to the oven, only to find a cake burnt, ruined, a failure. She fled, rushing to her room, tears streaming down her face. He came in with a gentle knock. “It’s perfect,” he said and kissed her.