Hand over the bakery deed by Friday, Grandma, or I’ll have you declared incompetent

I wiped my hands on my apron and stepped between Tyler and Grandma. “Incompetent,” I repeated, tasting the word. “That’s a big claim, Ty. You’ll need medical records. Financial mismanagement. A pattern.” He smirked. “I have all of it. Aunt Linda already signed an affidavit. Grandma forgets names, she misplaces receipts, she let this dump fall behind on taxes.” The regulars gasped. Grandma’s eyes filled. I just nodded slowly and walked to the back office. When I returned, I was carrying three things: a notarized folder, a USB drive, and a business card. I placed them on the counter one by one. “This,” I said, tapping the folder, “is the operating agreement Grandma signed in 2019, transferring full ownership of Hennessy’s Bakery into a family trust. I’m the trustee. She’s the lifetime beneficiary. You’re not on it.” Tyler’s smile twitched. “This,” I continued, sliding the USB forward, “is six years of clean books, every tax filing paid early, and the deposit receipts for the second location we open in March. Turns out night shifts give you time to learn QuickBooks.” His face went the color of raw dough. “And this,” I said, holding up the business card, “is Diane Park. Elder abuse attorney. She’s been waiting for you to put something in writing, Tyler. Like, say, a clipboard full of threats in front of fourteen witnesses.” The regulars, God bless them, raised their coffee cups like a jury. Aunt Linda’s “affidavit” turned out to be a Facebook message Tyler had screenshot and edited; Diane had it dismantled by Tuesday. By Friday, Tyler was the one served papers — a restraining order keeping him three hundred feet from Grandma and the shop. Grandma braided challah that evening, humming. She slid the first warm loaf toward me and whispered, “You knew.” I kissed her flour-dusted cheek. “Grandpa told me to watch the wolves, Grandma. I’ve just been counting teeth.”