I stood in front of the glass display of a fancy little bakery in the heart of the city, staring at cakes like I was choosing a battle plan. There were too many options, and all of them looked like they had been handcrafted by sugar angels sent from the heavens to tempt weak-willed men.
"Do you need help?" the girl behind the counter asked, smiling in that way people do when they're trying not to laugh at your visible existential crisis.
"I'm visiting my mother," I muttered, still glaring at the glossy pastries like one of them might whisper buy me and all your emotional problems will go away.
"I want raspberry cake."
"Oh, wow. They say raspberry is the perfect balance of sweet and tart. It feels like love—without being overwhelming."
…
Okay. She had me there.
