When Jerry and I learned we were expecting after two years of trying—and countless emotional highs and lows—we planned a celebration we’d never forget. Little did we know just how unforgettable it would be.
We decided on a gender reveal party with both families, and Jerry’s mom, Nancy, eagerly volunteered to handle the cake. She’d been brimming with enthusiasm since we first announced the pregnancy, so letting her bake seemed like a sweet way to include her. My own mother helped me decorate, turning our home into a scene worthy of a Pinterest board: pastel balloons, fresh flowers, and a banner that read “He or She? Let’s See!”
On the big day, guests filtered in, smiling and chatting, and Nancy arrived in an outfit entirely in black—unusual, but she wasn’t known for her fashion sense, so I shrugged it off. The centerpiece of the party was the pristine white cake Nancy had made. It was supposed to reveal either pink or blue inside, announcing to everyone whether we were having a girl or a boy.
When the time came, Jerry and I stood side by side, the knife poised over the cake. Excitement bubbled around us; someone started a countdown. When we cut into the cake and pulled out the first slice, I froze. Instead of pink or blue, the interior was black. Startlingly black. Whispers spread through the room. Confused glances bounced from one person to another.
My eyes landed on Nancy, standing quietly off to the side. I realized she was dabbing her eyes, and a sense of dread ran through me. “Nancy,” I began, struggling to keep calm, “why is our cake black?”
Her lips quivered as she spoke: “I—I didn’t know what else to do. There was this fortune teller—she told me that if my first grandchild were a boy, it would bring tragedy and sickness to the family. I thought if the cake was black, it might ward off the curse.”
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