Hand over the company credit card, Mom. You’re clearly too senile to run a

I set the tray down very gently. That’s the thing about being underestimated for sixty-eight years — you learn to move slow when you’re about to move fast. “Vanessa, sweetheart,” I said, wiping my hands on my apron, “before I sign anything, I’d like you to meet someone.” I nodded toward the corner booth, where a quiet man in a gray suit had been nursing the same coffee for an hour. He stood up. Vanessa’s face went the color of unbaked dough. “This is Mr. Halverson,” I said. “He’s been auditing our books for the past three weeks. At my request.” Mr. Halverson opened a leather folder. Forty-seven thousand dollars in unauthorized transfers to a shell LLC registered in Vanessa’s name. Receipts for designer handbags charged to the bakery account. A forged signature on a line of credit she’d opened in MY name. The regulars in line had gone completely silent. Mrs. Petrov, who’d bought a loaf of rye from me every Saturday for thirty years, actually pulled out her phone and started recording. “Mom, I can explain —” Vanessa started. “You can explain it to the detective who’s meeting us here at four,” I said. “Or you can sign these papers reversing every change you made, return the credit card, and walk out of my bakery with the clothes on your back and whatever dignity you’ve got left.” I slid the pen across the counter. “You’ve got about ninety seconds to decide, baby girl. The cinnamon rolls are getting cold.” She signed. Her hand shook so badly she misspelled her own last name. As she walked out past the line of customers, old Mr. Chen tipped his cap to me and said, “Margaret, I’ll take two loaves of the real sourdough. Welcome back.” I smiled for the first time in six months, tied my apron tighter, and got back to work.