The Cake Didn't Go Bland. He Grew Up.

He stops by the counter after work and picks up three boxes of mooncakes. No smelling, no tasting, no asking what's inside — chosen the way you choose any item off a shelf. All three are gifts. Only at home does it feel strange: as a kid he waited all year for one slice, and now with three boxes in his hands he feels nothing at all.

He opens one box and takes a bite. Bland. He explains it to himself: he's grown up, his taste has changed, they sell these all year now so they've stopped being special. Then he thinks of his father. Back then his father cut the cake into eight, handed the slices around, and sat watching. He never ate one. The sweetness was never in the cake — it was in someone cutting it, and someone waiting for it. He keeps one box back. It won't be sent anywhere.

That night he sits on the sofa with the box on his lap and asks himself whether he still looks forward to the festival at all. As a kid you waited a whole year for one cake, cut into eight, a tiny slice that still tastes sweet in memory. Now a whole box for himself tastes of nothing. And then he remembers: his father didn't eat back then. His father was happy just watching the kids eat. The joy of being small was getting to eat. The joy of being grown is having someone to feed. He cuts the cake into eight and calls the whole house in.

He sends three identical messages: "just a small Mid-Autumn gift for you." This year the gift is a task to get done. The people receiving it probably won't eat it either — they'll pass it on. The box travels from hand to hand and nobody ever opens it. The last box, he takes home and cuts for his mother.

Given away, it's a gift. Cut for his mother, it's Mid-Autumn.

How many places did you send cakes this year — and have you cut one for anyone yet?