Ron had always been possessive about his food, but nothing stirred that feeling more than cake. Especially *his* cake. It wasn’t that he didn’t have enough to share — it was the idea of someone else touching what was meant for him. That rich, velvety slice, the smooth frosting, the way the fork sank perfectly into each layer — it was his, and his alone.
One afternoon, after a long day at work, Ron sat down at his kitchen table with a perfect slice of chocolate cake. The cake had been a reward to himself, something he’d been looking forward to all week. As he admired it, his door creaked open, and in walked his little niece, Sophie, visiting with her mother.
Sophie’s eyes lit up as she saw the cake. "Uncle Ron, can I have a bite?" she asked, her voice soft and hopeful.
Ron stiffened. He looked at the cake, then at Sophie. His chest tightened. "This is mine, Sophie. I’ve been waiting all week for it," he said, his voice sharper than he intended.
Sophie’s smile faded, her small face crumpling with disappointment. "Okay," she whispered, turning away. Ron watched her leave the room, feeling a pang of guilt but quickly dismissing it. She would understand, he thought. This cake was special.
But as Ron took his first bite, it didn’t taste the way he imagined. The sweetness was there, but something felt off. He tried another bite, and then another, but each one left a bitter taste in his mouth. The joy he’d anticipated had drained away.
Suddenly, the cake didn’t seem so special. The room felt too quiet. He realized, in that moment, that he had hurt Sophie over something as trivial as a slice of cake. The loneliness that followed was heavier than the satisfaction he'd expected.
Ron put down his fork, but it was too late. The cake was still his, but now it tasted like regret.