painted myself at midnight. I framed a few of Grandma’s handwritten recipe cards, the ink faded and the corners stained with butter, and hung them on the wall where I could see them every morning.
I named it Rose’s Bakery.
Nicole helped after school, and it quickly became clear she understood social media far better than I did—which, admittedly, was not a high bar.
“Mom, you cannot post another blurry picture of bread.”
“It looks fine.”
“It looks like crime scene evidence. This is sourdough. People want to see the crust patterns. In 4K.”
So she took over. She filmed me glazing cinnamon rolls, folding pastry dough, scrubbing down the counters, and pulling golden pies from the oven. Slowly, people started coming. Then they started coming back. By the fourth month, there was a line on Saturday mornings.
For the first time since my marriage ended, I had something that
was mine. Something he couldn’t take.
Edward hated it. He never said so outright, but his little comments said enough.
“So how much can you really make selling muffins, Claire?”
I didn’t answer. I just kept baking.
Part 4: Table Four
Then one Saturday, the bell over the door chimed, and Edward walked in with Vanessa on his arm.
He smiled as if he’d come to inspect a property. “Well. So this is the big business.”
Vanessa glanced around, unimpressed. “Cute.”
Behind me, Nicole had been restocking napkins. I felt her freeze.
“Mom,” she said under her breath.
“I know.”
Edward strolled up to the counter. “We’d like a table.”
Every part of me wanted to tell him to get out. But the room was full, and I refused to give him a scene. I kept my voice even. “Table four is open.”
He sat down like he owned the
