Mum walks around the dessert table. Her little plate is empty, she holds on to the fork tightly, clipping it against the bottom of the plate. The table is stacked with calories, dressed up in icing, dry fruit and custard.
Mum stops by each dish, reading the little description card with half a smile; it betrays her resentment. She has been in a foul mood since we got here; I tricked her into coming and I’m sure to get an earful on the way out.
I feign a smile and grab a plate. Normally she’d tell me off for breaking the line, but she lets me nudge in by her side. “Why are you smiling? This isn’t cake. It’s not real anyway.”
“It looks real enough Mum.” I take a bite of the sugar-free carrot cake. “And it tastes like the real deal.” She looks suspicious, but reaches out for a piece. I watch her closely. I know she won’t admit it tastes just as good, but I can see it in her eyes: this is better than insulin.