My stepsister thought she could outsmart my grandma over a birthday cake, but she didn’t see what was coming next. I’m Stella. I’m 25, and if there’s one person in the world I’d lay down my life for, it’s my grandma, Evelyn.
She’s 68, soft-spoken, and sharper than most people expect. Her eyes remind me of warm tea on a cold day — steady, comforting, and just a little sad around the edges. She practically raised me after my mom died.
My dad remarried the following year, and with his second wife, Susan, came her daughter Kayla — two years older than me and firmly convinced the world owed her both a crown and a throne. From the very beginning, Kayla looked at me like I was some sort of charity case and treated Grandma like an unwanted shadow that refused to leave. She and Susan often complained that the photos of my mom were too “heavy” for the room, that her jewelry looked “cheap” and “outdated.”
And Grandma?
She was just “the old lady who made too much food.”
I tried to tune it out. I really did. But some things plant themselves deep in your ribs and don’t let go.
So when I won $50,000 on a scratch-off ticket this spring, I didn’t even hesitate. A chunk went straight to Grandma. Specifically, to her lifelong wish: a cozy little bakery she used to daydream about when I was a kid, drifting off to sleep with the smell of sugar cookies in the air and soft jazz playing on the radio.
We painted it soft yellow. Lace curtains fluttered in the windows, the smell of cinnamon rolls hit you the second you opened the door, and the chalkboard menu changed with the seasons. When I handed her the keys, Grandma cried.
She really cried and told me no one had ever given her something that was hers. Her hands trembled when she turned the key in the lock for the first time. Business boomed.
Locals lined up for her lemon bars and peach pies, and her layer cakes became the stuff of small-town legend. She knew everyone by name, and they knew her laugh before they even stepped inside. Then Kayla showed up.
It was just before closing last week. I remember because the clock read 4:45 p.m., and the place smelled like vanilla and rising dough. Kayla breezed in like she owned the sidewalk, sunglasses perched on her head like she’d just stepped off a yacht.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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