I was upset my friend was getting married. Then I toppled her wedding cake

“Where does the cake go?” I asked a bow-tied bartender, my voice tight and panicked. I was in my best cocktail dress and heels, trying to keep my grip on a box roughly the size, and weight, of a bear cub.

I’d been late getting ready, late picking up the cake, and now I was late to my friend Stephanie’s wedding. I’d missed the ceremony completely and it was already cocktail hour. I just wanted to get the cake through the crowd and onto the dessert table before the bride noticed.

The bartender pointed me toward the reception tent on the other side of the winery. As I shuffled forward, I grumbled to myself: Why did I have to volunteer to transport the cake? Why, I wondered, was I going to this wedding at all?

Stephanie was my next-door neighbor. Her getting married meant she and her 4-year-old daughter were moving, which meant both my toddler and I were losing our best, and closest, friends. Of course, I knew I was supposed to be happy for Stephanie, who’d finally found true love. And on the outside, I was. I smiled, I celebrated, and I put on heels. But on the inside, I was drooping like a day-old bouquet.

When I eventually placed the box on the dessert table, I sighed with relief. I even gave a wink and two thumbs up to a waiter, who was putting out the last of the silverware. Finally, my task was complete. Maybe now I could find a glass of wine and try to enjoy myself.

But my joy turned to horror when I opened the box and found the cake, a two-tier confection with white buttercream frosting, decorated with greenery, was almost completely horizontal: smushed up against the side of its cardboard box.

I stood, frozen, staring at the cake. Frosting was everywhere, sections of yellow cake popping out. I had the scary thought that somehow, subconsciously, I might have done this on purpose.

It all started when Stephanie began dating her husband-to-be.

She and I sat on my front patio, sharing a bottle of wine and a cheese plate my husband had prepared for us. Our toddlers were taking turns going down a plastic slide.

“There’s just something about him,” my friend said. “I can see myself with him. I think he’s the one.”

I congratulated her, poured more wine, and assured her that her new boyfriend seemed like a great catch. I was genuinely happy for her.

As the months passed, when we’d chat over our garden wall or meet for toddler playdates, Stephanie would mention marriage more and more. I was excited, asking when she thought he was going to propose. I always told her how fun married life could be and was looking forward to watching her be a bride. But eventually, she started mentioning the new home she and her bigger family would need. He wanted more space than her two-bedroom townhome and she wanted a place where they could start fresh together. “Neither his place nor my place — our place,” she told me.

I hated the idea.

Ever since I’d moved into the neighborhood two years before, Stephanie and I had been fast friends. I could always depend on her if I needed a last-minute babysitter and she could always count on me to bring over pizza and dessert on days she had to work late. Whenever one of us unexpectedly ran out of baby wipes, the other was always ready to pass a package over the garden wall.

It meant so much to have a mom friend next door, especially when I felt unsure of my skills as a parent. Stephanie had a teenager as well, so as the more experienced parent, she’d give me valuable advice and introduce me to the best local toddler activities and classes. When I complained about a hard parenting day, she commiserated. It always made me feel better. She was one of the first people I told after I found out I was pregnant with my second, and there were many days when she came over to hold my newborn so I could shower or take a nap.

One day, Stephanie texted me a picture of an engagement ring. “He proposed! I can’t believe it,” she wrote.

I couldn’t believe it either, or maybe I didn’t want to.

After that, things moved fast. Wedding plans were made, a date was set, and soon, Stephanie started packing. Her fiancé had found them a beautiful home in the next city over.

I started dreading the wedding. Stephanie’s friendship had meant so much to me. Without her next door, I didn’t know what I’d do.

On the day of Stephanie’s wedding, I woke up feeling off. I was distracted, thinking about a close friend who had moved out of state in middle school and another friend who had transferred out of our college. People say they’ll keep in touch, but it’s always hard.

I stomped around all morning as I got ready, got the kids dressed and finally picked up the cake. It wasn’t until later that day, when I opened the cake box and found the frosting covering the inside of the box, that I finally snapped out of my mood.

I was shocked. My friend’s wedding cake was splattered like a pie in a “Looney Tunes” cartoon. And it was all my fault. Had this happened when I turned off the freeway? Had I tilted it too much while walking through the venue? Did the air conditioning not reach my car’s hatchback, causing the cake to simply melt onto itself? I wasn’t sure.

I stood there, frustrated, sad and on the verge of tears. I’d missed my friend’s wedding ceremony, missed her finally saying “I do,” and now I was ruining the reception, delivering a mess of a cake. Stephanie had been there for me, supported and encouraged me often over the last two years, and I’d let her down on her big day. I wanted to step away from the table, get to my car and drive away as fast as I could. But I knew I had to, somehow, try to fix this.

The guests were still at cocktail hour, which meant Stephanie was busy taking photos on the other side of the venue. But I knew I was quickly running out of time.

I gently pulled the cake up and out of the box, letting the top half rest on my forearm as I kept the two layers somewhat together. When a waiter walked by, I shouted, “Get me a knife!” like a surgeon in a medical drama. He handed me a myriad of utensils and I got to work, trying to push the cake right-side up and level the frosting. Another woman, who I later learned was the caterer, offered a pitcher of water. “A wet knife will work better,” she said. She dipped a knife in the water and covered a patch of exposed cake with ease. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen a lot worse,” she said before getting back to preparing the buffet food.

I was grateful for help from this apparent frosting whisperer, but from the smell of rosemary chicken she was now uncovering, I knew I was running out of time.

Now on my own, and with seconds to finish, I tried my best to smooth the final sections. I even stole greenery from the table centerpieces to cover the hopeless sections. In the end, I had frosting on my hands, on my dress and in my hair, and the cake still leaned slightly to one side — but I thought it looked OK. Almost normal.

When the first wedding guests started arriving at the reception tent, I took that as my cue to head to cocktail hour and find my husband and kids. Together, we walked to our table.

As we mixed in with the other guests, chatted with some of Stephanie’s other friends and eventually found our table, I kind of felt like that cake. I’d been a droopy mess before, but now I felt pieced together and ready for a party.

Sure, I was losing a great neighbor, but at the same time, there was so much to be thankful for, so much to celebrate. Of course I wanted to be there. I wanted to stand tall and celebrate my friend.

In the end, everyone seemed to enjoy the cake, even though it was a little off. When I took a break from dancing to get a slice, it was already gone.

I saw Stephanie outside the next morning. She was on her way to the airport, ready for her honeymoon. When I apologized for the cake, she just laughed and said it wasn’t a big deal. Still, I found myself apologizing again and again. I knew I was sorry about more than just the cake. “When you get back, let me know how I can help you finish packing,” I said, giving her a big hug.

In the past six months since Stephanie moved, I have to admit, we’ve only seen each other a handful of times. Maybe she and I will figure out how to keep in touch better than I have with other friends who have moved. Maybe we won’t. But I’m so lucky I had Stephanie for a next-door neighbor when I did. Now, we might not be as physically close, but I hope we’re friends for a long time.

And while Stephanie said the cake wasn’t a big deal, I still feel bad. Every so often, I wonder about my first thought when I first opened the box, if I really did wreck it on purpose. But the more I think about it, the more I’m sure it was an accident. Things happen: Cakes fall, we run late, friends move. We just have to try to do our best and, when we’re down, hope someone will help build us back up and smooth the edges.

This article was originally published on TODAY.com