Author's Note: so yeah this was a project for English. Takes the point of view of Laura Brown in the book The Hours

It was just a cake, but it seemed I was staring at my whole life. I had high hopes for this cake; I envisioned it a thing of beauty, of perfection. And there it sat, in all its mediocrity. The uneven frosting, the squished letter N in Dan—it taunted me with its imperfections. I slaved over this cake, each cup of flour was added knowing it was one step towards greatness. And yet, here it sits mockingly plain and forgettable.

Staring at the cake I hoped for it to transform into the vision in my mind. I stared to no avail, and all the while he stared at me. I always used to wish to be looked upon as he now looks at me; with such hope, such trust, such love. I never imagined how suffocating such a look could be. I could feel it burning into my flesh with a power of judgment that never ceases. Such high standards his eyes hold; standards that cannot possibly be met. Under his eyes, little though they may be, I am forever measured, forever found lacking.

Mother; I am no mother. What mother is afraid of their child? What mother cannot feel the life growing inside her? No, I am not a mother, just a pretender terrified of being revealed. I wasn’t looking at him, but I know he was studying me. I could feel his eyes poking and prodding; soon he would discover I was a fraud, a shame. No, I am not a mother, not a wife. I am the girl in the corner reading—imagining that she’s someone else, anyone but herself. Whether it was a heroine saving the day, a damsel in distress, or a princess in forbidden love, I took on the persona of the characters written among the pages. But eventually the pages stop, the story ends, and I am forced to be myself, just a girl that is easily passed by.

Once again my focus became the cake; it consumed my thoughts, invoking emotions in me I had not felt in a long time. The crumbs mixed into the icing screamed amateur, the lettering, incompetent. I could see my sister, ever so pretty and popular, twirling her hair and flirting with all the guys. She could make a man stop dead with just one look. I on the other hand, was ignored, ridiculed even. My hands shook, tears welled up in my eyes, with one sweep of my arm the cake fell into the garbage to be forgotten forever. Grabbing my book—forever my security blanket—I ran out the door leaving it open. If I was a cake I would be that one. I think he knew that all along.