I wiped my hands slowly on my apron and smiled the way Walter used to smile right before he won a hand of poker. ‘Tiffany, sweetheart,’ I said, ‘why don’t we step into the back office? I’d hate for the regulars to watch you embarrass yourself.’ Brent snickered. They followed me past the ovens into the little room where I keep the ledgers. I pulled a manila folder from the safe and slid it across the desk. ‘Read the top page, dear. Out loud, since you’re so fond of an audience.’ Tiffany’s glossed lips moved silently, then stopped. The color drained from her spray tan. The deed to the building, the trademark for Hearth & Honey, and the trust controlling both had been transferred eighteen months ago, not to her mother, not to her, but to the Whitfield County Culinary Apprenticeship Foundation. A nonprofit I founded to train foster kids aging out of the system. ‘You see, baby,’ I said gently, ‘I called my lawyer the morning after you posted that TikTok calling me a ‘cringe boomer hoarding generational wealth.’ Funny thing about generational wealth, it only stays generational if the next generation shows up.’ Brent’s smirk collapsed. He muttered something about the Range Rover payment. Tiffany shrieked that I couldn’t do this, that she was family. I walked to the door and held it open. ‘Marcus,’ I called to my head apprentice, a quiet nineteen-year-old who’d slept in a shelter the night I met him, ‘would you show my granddaughter out? And box up two cinnamon rolls for the road. Even disappointment deserves a little sweetness.’ Tiffany stormed past, mascara running. Brent followed, already on the phone with the dealership. I stood in my doorway, the smell of yeast and brown butter wrapping around me like Walter’s old cardigan, and for the first time in four years, I felt absolutely, gloriously full.
