Sunday was Bridget's 16th birthday, and I had woken up really early, before the sun had even come up, to bake her favourite cake, a red velvet. I danced around the kitchen, hoping that the mix master wouldn't wake anyone.
I'd made this cake often for Bridget's birthdays, usually googling the recipe, but today, I just had to go off of my memory and hope I remembered it correctly. The cake took 45 minutes to bake, which meant I had some time to kill, so I started working on my English essay that was due next Friday, keeping an eye on the clock because I didn't have a timer.
My mother used to bake a lot when we were children, and it always made the house smell amazing, then after the divorce, she stopped baking altogether. Bridget and I would occasionally bake cookies or muffins, but cakes
