My Husband’s Family Treating My Brand-New Bakery as Their Personal Buffet — Until I Served Them the Pettiest Revenge

“Just a few! We’re family, right?” said Aunt Faye, her eyes gleaming. “Can’t wait to tell everyone about this place!”

Of course, I agreed.

I was floating on joy — joy spun from sugar and pride. But that joy didn’t last. The next morning, the bell chimed again.

Aunt Faye, back for a lemon-blueberry scone. An hour later, two cousins strolled in for chocolate cupcakes. And it kept going.

Every day, they came back — bigger bags, empty hands, and louder boasts about how much they “backed” me. Then cousin Lila showed up with her coworkers. “They’ve heard all about your baking!” she said, snatching six cupcakes without a glance at the till.

I kept baking more, burning through supplies daily. I started waking at 4 instead of 5 to keep up with what they took. The exhaustion stung, but their words cut deeper.

One morning, Uncle Hal leaned over the counter, smirking like he owned the place. “It’s not like it’s costing you anything,” he said, grabbing a loaf of rye. “We’re family.”

Cousin Mara even complained my coffee was too weak.

And don’t get me started on Aunt Faye! “How much for a cinnamon twist?” she asked one day. “That’s ridiculous!

And there’s way too much spice in them anyway.”

Like she’d ever paid for one. When I told my husband how I felt, he just shrugged. “They’re just excited, love.

Let them enjoy it. They’ll pay soon.”

By week three, paying customers were gone by 10 a.m. — the shelves were already bare.

I was losing money, losing sleep, and starting to wonder if this was all a huge mistake. Then came that misty Tuesday that changed everything. After seeing the half-empty display, I headed to the kitchen, as always, to start over.

I’d just pulled out a tray of biscuits when I heard noises out front. I was certain I’d locked the door. Absolutely certain.

I grabbed the rolling pin I’d used for dough and stormed to the front, gripping it like a club. “What the—”

Aunt Faye froze, arms stuffed with my brioche. She stood by the open front door, spare keys jangling in her hand.

My spare keys — the ones I kept in my husband’s drawer for emergencies. “Oh, hi!” she chirped, like she’d been caught tidying up, not stealing. “You’re here early too!”

Something inside me didn’t just crack — it shattered.

Like a twig bent too far. But I didn’t yell or sob. I just stared at her as something cold settled in my chest.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I’m always here early, replacing what’s been taken.”Continue reading…