When my fiancé Dave and I planned our wedding, we chose to pay for everything ourselves — no money from his wealthy, judgmental mother, Christine. I even decided to bake the wedding cake myself, despite her scoffing at the idea. “You’re baking your own cake?” she sneered. “What is this, a picnic?” But Dave believed in me. I poured weeks into perfecting a three-tier vanilla bean cake with raspberry filling and buttercream florals. The night before the wedding,

I assembled it with pride. The big day was magical. Guests raved about the cake, asking who had made it. But before I could answer, Christine grabbed the mic during the reception and announced she had made it. I was stunned. Later, Dave told me to let it go. “She’s about to regret it,” he said. The very next day,