I spent Thursday calling every person Delphine had ordered a cake for during the previous year. Eleven people confirmed they had paid her, usually between $125 and $200. I totaled the amounts, matched them to my ingredient receipts, and printed everything. Then I contacted Sunday’s customer directly and explained that future orders would come through me. She was embarrassed; Delphine had already charged her $190.
When Delphine arrived Saturday, the cake was finished and boxed on my counter. Beside it sat an invoice for $190, along with a second document showing $1,735 she had collected from previous customers. She reached for the cake, but I moved the box away. “Payment first.” She laughed until I slid the spreadsheet toward her. Her face changed immediately.
Elijah walked into the kitchen just as she began insisting the money had been a “service fee” for bringing me customers. That excuse disappeared when I showed him messages where Delphine had told people she managed my business and set my prices. Elijah finally understood why I had spent so many evenings baking without earning anything. He told his mother she could either reimburse what she had collected or explain the situation herself to every friend involved.
She transferred the money over the following week. I did not give away another free cake except when I personally chose to. I created proper order forms, deposits, invoices, and a business account so nobody could pretend to represent me again. Six months later, I was booked nearly every weekend. Delphine never called it a silly hobby again. The strangest part was that she had accidentally proven exactly the opposite of what she’d spent years saying: people were willing to pay real money for my cakes. She had simply decided she deserved that money more than the woman doing the work.
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