“Sweetheart,” I said gently, “you’re right. I should hand the bakery to someone more qualified.” Tiffany’s smirk bloomed like a rash. She actually reached for the deed. I slid it back under my plate. “Which is why, three weeks ago, I signed it over to your cousin Renee.” The room inhaled. Renee — quiet Renee, the one Tiffany called ‘the charity case’ because she worked double shifts as a nurse and still showed up at 4 a.m. every Saturday to help me knead dough — looked up from her water glass, stunned. Tiffany laughed, sharp and ugly. “Renee? She doesn’t even have a business degree.” “No,” I said, “but she has my recipes. She has them because she asked. You never did.” I turned to my son, Tiffany’s father. “The accountant flagged something interesting last month. Forty-two hundred dollars missing from the register over six months. Receipts voided after closing. Cameras don’t lie, Tiffany.” Her face drained so fast I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” I continued, “if you’d shown one ounce of humility tonight. Instead you asked for the keys.” I slid an envelope across the table. “That’s a repayment plan. Sign it, and I won’t press charges. Don’t, and the district attorney already has the file.” Tiffany opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Renee stood up, walked around the table, and knelt beside my chair like she used to when she was six. “Grandma,” she whispered, “are you sure?” I cupped her flour-dusted cheek. “Baby, I’ve been sure since you were twelve and you brought me soup in the hospital instead of asking what was in the will.” Tiffany grabbed her purse and ran. The front door slammed. My son just stared at his plate. I picked up my fork. “Pass the rolls, please. Renee made them. They’re better than mine now.”
