No receipts by the till. No stray coins or bills. Just naked shelves where my lemon tarts and chocolate brioche should’ve been.
“Again? Really?” I whispered, my voice trembling more than I’d expected. You need to understand — this wasn’t just about missing pastries.
Most families around me juggled multiple jobs just to put dinner on the table. Dreaming was a privilege we couldn’t afford. But my nana was different.
Even when the cupboards were nearly bare, she worked wonders with a bit of flour and whatever sugar she could scrape together. Her hands danced with elegance, molding dough with a tenderness that felt like poetry. “Love and care,” she’d say, flour dusting her weathered hands.
“That’s the recipe for good bread.”
Nana taught me to bake, and over time, I learned to craft something tasty from almost nothing — even the dented apples from the neighbor’s tired tree could turn into a pie in her hands. Somewhere in those moments, I started dreaming of my own bakery. Nana always rooted for me, so when she passed, I knew I had to chase it — to honor her and all she’d taught me.
I worked shifts as a supermarket cashier, skipped treats like café visits or movie nights, and didn’t even dream of getaways. I survived on budget ramen and clearance frozen meals. Every spare dollar went into a jar labeled “Sweet Haven” in my shaky handwriting.
It took years to save enough to open the bakery. During that time, I got married, earned a promotion, learned new recipes, and took free online business courses. Opening day was everything I’d hoped for — and then some.Continue reading…
