Hand over the bakery keys, Eleanor, before you embarrass yourself any further — you’re

Brandon slid the folder across the counter, right onto the tray of fresh madeleines. “Sign the transfer, Aunt Eleanor. Mom and I already talked to the bank. They agree you’re not fit to run a business anymore. We’re doing you a favor.” The lawyer cleared his throat and pointed to a yellow tab. I picked up the folder, brushed the powdered sugar off the cover, and opened it. Property transfer. Power of attorney. A medical statement signed by a doctor I’d never met in my life. I smiled at Brandon — the same smile Frank used to call my “dangerous one.” Then I reached under the counter and pulled out a folder of my own. “Funny you bring this up today, sweetheart. I was going to call you this afternoon.” I laid out the documents one by one. The deed — transferred eight months ago into the Frank and Eleanor Hayes Community Trust. The bakery’s new ownership — a nonprofit teaching free pastry classes to local foster kids. A letter from the state attorney general’s office, thanking me for reporting the forged power of attorney my sister had filed last spring. And finally, a printout of Brandon’s text messages to his mother, subpoenaed during the investigation: “Once she signs, we sell to the developer. Old bat won’t even read it.” The bakery went silent. The lawyer slowly closed his briefcase and stood up. “Mr. Hayes, I was not informed of any of this. I’m withdrawing.” Brandon’s face drained whiter than my buttercream. “Aunt Eleanor — wait — I can explain —” I slid a small paper bag across the counter. “A cinnamon braid. On the house. Frank always said you can’t send family away hungry.” Then I looked him dead in the eye. “But you can send them away empty-handed. Don’t come back, Brandon.” The bell above the door rang as he left. The corner booth burst into applause. I tied my apron tighter and went back to the oven. The 6 a.m. batch wasn’t going to bake itself.