Hand over the bakery keys, Grandma. Mom and I are selling this dump before

Diane stepped forward, sliding a folder across the glass case, knocking over a tray of cannoli. “The buyer wants to close Friday. Mom signs, you vacate, everyone gets a cut. Well — everyone except you, Elena. You’re not blood-blood.” She smirked at that. I’d been adopted at four, after my parents died. Grandma Rosa had raised me. Diane had never let me forget I was, in her words, “the charity case.” I wiped my hands slowly on my apron. “Funny you brought paperwork,” I said. “Because I brought some too.” I reached under the register and pulled out a leather portfolio. Tyler laughed. “What is that, your recipe book?” “It’s the deed,” I said. The bakery went silent. “Grandma transferred ownership to me three years ago. The day after your mother told her she was, and I quote, ‘a burden nobody asked for.’ The building, the business, the lease extension she negotiated in 2019 — all in my name.” Diane’s face drained. “That’s not legal, she has dementia—” “She has stage four cancer,” I said quietly. “Her mind is sharper than yours has ever been. We have the attorney’s evaluation, the notarized video, and the tax filings to prove it.” Tyler lunged for the folder. I slid it back. “Also — the buyer you’ve been talking to? That’s my fiancé’s development firm. He called me the second your mother reached out. We were waiting to see how far you’d go.” Grandma Rosa finally stood, slowly, and walked to the counter. She took my hand. “Elena is my daughter,” she said, her voice trembling but clear. “In every way that ever mattered. This bakery is hers. And so is everything else.” Diane opened her mouth. Closed it. Tyler grabbed his coat. The bell above the door jingled as they fled past a line of regulars who had heard every word. Mrs. Petrillo, eighty years old, started clapping. Then the baker from next door. Then the whole shop. Grandma squeezed my hand. “Now,” she whispered, “go finish the croissants, mija. We have customers.”