A Promise Frosted in Blue and Pink

I had counted quarters on the kitchen table until the numbers blurred, but the bakery sticker never changed: $42. The cake—three layers, rainbow sprinkles, a sugar rocket on top—sat in the window like a party I couldn’t afford. My son’s fifth birthday deserved fireworks; I could barely strike a match.

I walked in anyway, hoping for a day-old discount, maybe a missing slice. No luck. I thanked the clerk, swallowed hard, and pushed open the door—straight into Officer Ramirez, mid-beat patrol, coffee in hand.

One look at my wet eyes and he simply asked, “Which one is his?” I pointed through the glass. He disappeared inside. Flour floated in the sunlight; the cash register dinged. He emerged with the box cradled like evidence of something good.

“Tell him it’s from a friend who likes rockets too,” he said, tipping his cap.

That night candles flickered, sprinkles flew, and a little boy believed wishes work. I cut the first piece, set it aside, and promised the universe I’d pay it forward—one rainbow cake at a time.