Hand me the keys, sweetheart. A bakery is no place for a widow who

Derek blinked. ‘Page nine of what?’ I reached under the counter and pulled out the navy folder Daniel’s attorney had handed me three days after the burial. I’d been waiting for this moment, dreading it, rehearsing it while I kneaded dough at four in the morning. ‘Page nine of the trust,’ I said. ‘The one Daniel set up eight months before he died. The one you never saw because you stopped visiting him in hospice after week two.’

Megan lowered her phone. The line of customers went very still.

‘Daniel knew,’ I continued. ‘He knew you’d been telling his mother I was draining the accounts. He knew you forged his signature on that loan in 2021 — the bank called him while he was on morphine, Derek. He cried for an hour. Then he called his lawyer.’ I slid the folder across the counter. ‘The bakery, the building, the recipe rights, and Daniel’s share of your father’s lake house — all in an irrevocable trust. I’m the sole trustee. You’re explicitly named as a disqualified beneficiary. Want to guess who inherits your portion if you contest it? The children’s hospice that took care of him.’

Derek’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

‘Oh,’ I added, ‘and that recording Megan’s making? My attorney will love it. Daniel left a sealed letter for the family group chat, to be sent the first time you publicly harassed me. I pressed send while you were talking.’

Phones around the bakery began to buzz, including Derek’s. He looked down. His face went the color of raw dough. Megan was already backing toward the door, phone forgotten on the counter.

‘Get out of my bakery,’ I said softly. ‘And Derek — next time you want the keys, try earning them like your brother did.’

The bell above the door chimed as he left. A regular at table four started clapping. Then another. I turned back to the oven, wiped one tear away, and pulled out a fresh tray of Daniel’s favorite rolls.