The massive cake sat right beside my table, tall, ivory, and severely wounded, featuring a giant crater right in the middle where my brother’s spoon had dug in.

Grandma looked over at the damaged masterpiece with wide, soft eyes.

She reached up with a white linen napkin and gently dabbed the remaining tears from her eyes.

Then she let out a long, heavy sigh, the deep, practical sigh of a seasoned woman who has witnessed plenty of sudden kitchen disasters over her long lifetime.

“You know, my dear,” she whispered softly, turning her head toward me with a tiny, wry smile.

“There are much proper ways to cut a wedding cake.”