American Bakers Crust: AITA For Ruining My Niece's Gender Reveal?

So my sister-in-law, let's call her Brenda because that's her name and she deserves the public shaming, decided that her third child's gender reveal needed to be a "classy affair." Which, in 2024 America, is code for "I spent six hundred dollars on a cake that tastes like regret and food coloring." Anyway, Brenda hits me up three weeks ago. "You're the baker in the family," she says, like I didn't spend two years at culinary school only to end up doing wedding cupcakes for bridezillas who yell at me about fondant. "I need you to make the cake. It has to be perfect." Red flag number one: nobody who says "it has to be perfect" has ever been chill about anything. I ask her the obvious question. What color should the inside be? Blue for boy, pink for girl, and yes, we all know it's archaic, but Brenda's not exactly hosting a TED talk on gender theory. She gets all cagey. "Oh, you know, just do something neutral on the outside. The inside is the surprise." Cool. So I bake a gorgeous vanilla cake with white buttercream and little pastel dots. Inside, I do a swirl of blue and pink. Because I'm not a monster, and also because I genuinely did not know and Brenda refused to tell me. I figured a swirl was cute. Non-committal. Equal opportunity. Reveal day. Brenda cuts the cake in front of forty people and a professional photographer she hired to document this moment for eternity. She slices in. Blue and pink swirl. Silence. You could hear a pin drop, and also my nephew whispering "is it a gay cake?" Brenda's face does the thing where it tries to smile but her eyes are broadcasting pure, unfiltered rage. She goes, "What is this?" Like I served her a raw chicken. I say, "It's a swirl. You didn't tell me the gender." She says, "I told you it was a surprise!" I say, "A surprise for me too, apparently." Now she's crying. Her husband is doing the thing where he stares at the floor like it owes him money. The photographer is still snapping pics because that's what you paid for, lady. And my mother leans over and whispers, "Just tell them it's a boy, nobody will know." Ma. That's not how cake works. I can't retroactively un-bake a swirl. Brenda later texts the family group chat calling me "selfish" and "attention-seeking" for "making it about me." I made a cake, Brenda. You made it a hostage negotiation. So now I'm asking the internet: AITA for baking a gender-neutral swirl cake because my sister-in-law wouldn't tell me the sex of her unborn child, which, by the way, she doesn't even know yet because she wanted the doctor to write it on a card and give it to her cousin to give to the baker, and the cousin lost the card? Yeah. That happened. The cousin lost the card. So nobody knew. Not me, not Brenda, not even the cousin who was supposed to be the keeper of the sacred gender knowledge. And somehow I'm the villain because I didn't guess. Anyway, Brenda's not speaking to me. The photos are apparently "ruined." And I've decided that the next time someone asks me to bake for a gender reveal, I'm going to respond with a link to a therapist's office and a recipe for chocolate chip cookies. Closing opinion: Gender reveals were invented by party supply companies to sell more confetti, and anyone who cries over cake colors needs to touch grass. Bake what you want. The baby won't remember, and honestly, neither should you.