Maybe she caught something in my tone, because her grin faded. She muttered something and hurried out, clutching the brioche like stolen jewels.
I stood there for a long time, thinking. Scheming. That afternoon, I posted online: “Sweet Haven will be CLOSED this weekend for a special private family tasting.”
He didn’t suspect a thing. They probably pictured a feast. What I had in mind was a reckoning.
Saturday arrived — gray skies, light rain. They showed up dressed up, grins wide, ready to gorge. I watched from inside as they filed in, expecting a spread.
Instead, they found name cards at each seat. On every plate, a single crumb. In every cup, just one sip of coffee.
All hidden under silver cloches I’d borrowed for the occasion. The silence when they lifted them? Priceless.
“Welcome,” I said, voice smooth like the glaze on my muffins. “Today’s menu features the exact amounts you left for paying customers… after helping yourselves without asking,” I said. “Please enjoy the scraps of your entitlement.”
Dead silence.
Then murmurs. Then shouting. “You think this is a joke?” Uncle Hal barked, face flushed.
“I’m not joking,” I said, folding my arms. “This is what it feels like when someone treats your dream like their snack bar.”
We’re family!”
“Exactly,” I said. “And real family supports, not takes.”
They all started yelling. I didn’t stick around to listen.
I walked back to the kitchen, perfectly calm. My husband looked flustered and stammered something, but I didn’t look back. That night, I changed every lock.
I sat in the empty bakery, flour still on my hands, and wrote a new message on the chalkboard by the counter:
“No unpaid family tabs. Love is free. Food isn’t.”
The next Monday, something wonderful happened.
They told friends. My husband’s family stopped showing up. Some are probably still sore, I bet.Continue reading…
