Sign the resignation letter, Grandma, or I’m putting you in the cheapest nursing home

I clicked the pen twice. “Tyler, sweetheart,” I said, “before I sign, can you remind me what percentage of the bakery you actually own?” He rolled his eyes. “Mom inherited Grandpa’s twenty percent. She signed it to me last month. That makes me a partner. Partners can force a buyout.” I nodded slowly. “And you filed that transfer with the state?” “Last week.” “Mm.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a thin blue folder. Inside was the original 1974 partnership agreement, the one Tyler had clearly never bothered to read. I slid it across the table the same way he’d slid the resignation. “Page four, Tyler. Read it out loud for the nice people pretending not to listen.” His jaw tightened, but he read. “Any transfer of shares to a non-spousal relative requires unanimous written consent of all founding partners.” He looked up. “You’re the only founding partner left.” “Exactly,” I said. “Which means your mother’s transfer to you is void. Which means you own zero percent of Hartwell & Sons. Which means for the last six months, you’ve been an unpaid intern who helped himself to the company credit card.” The color drained from his face. I pulled out a second folder. Receipts. Eleven thousand dollars in steakhouses, sneakers, and a weekend in Miami, all charged to the bakery. “My attorney has copies. So does the district attorney’s office, as of nine this morning.” Tyler started to stand. I didn’t. “Sit down, sweetheart. I’m not finished.” I slid one last paper toward him, a job application for the dish pit at the bakery, minimum wage, starting Monday. “You can pay me back at twelve dollars an hour, or you can explain the receipts to a judge. Your choice. Take your time. Order the pie, it’s on you.” I stood, smoothed my apron, and walked out into the golden light. Behind me, for the first time in his life, Tyler was speechless. The bell above the diner door rang like a verdict.