When my son sl:apped me for interrupting his video game, I just lowered my head and walked to the kitchen. I spent three hours baking his favorite triple-chocolate cake

to pay for repairs to his room.

Then I painted the walls white.

Now, on Sunday mornings, I bake only for myself.

Sometimes lemon bread.

Sometimes cinnamon rolls.

Never triple-chocolate cake.

That recipe belongs to the day my son confused silence with surrender.

And I let him taste exactly what he earned.