Hand over the bakery, Grandma. You’re too old to run it, and frankly, you’re

Brittany flipped the folder open with a flourish. “It’s a Power of Attorney transfer. Aunt Linda already signed off as next of kin. You’re showing early dementia signs, Grandma, everyone says so. This building is worth one point four million now that the developers are buying up Main Street. I’m doing you a favor.” Grandma Rose set the tray down softly. She didn’t speak. She just looked at me. I wiped my hands on my apron and walked to the back office. When I returned, I was holding a single manila envelope. “Brittany,” I said gently, “before you make Grandma sign anything, you should probably read this.” I slid it across the counter. Inside was the deed. My name was on it. Hers was on it. Grandma’s name had been removed eighteen months ago, the day after her doctor mentioned the word “forgetful” for the first time. “Grandma transferred ownership to a joint trust between the two of us last spring,” I said. “She wanted to protect the bakery from exactly this. Aunt Linda has no authority. Neither do you.” Brittany’s lawyer went pale and quietly began packing his briefcase. “You can’t do this,” Brittany hissed. “I’m family.” “You’re a stranger who showed up smelling money,” I said. “Grandma fed this town through a recession. She fed me when I had nothing. The only thing embarrassing the family name is you.” I pulled out my phone. “Also, the developers? They contacted us six months ago. We said no. We’re turning the upstairs into a free baking school for foster kids. Grandma’s idea.” The bell above the door jingled as regulars started filing in for the evening rush, every one of them having heard the whole thing. Mr. Patterson, the retired sheriff, held the door open and smiled. “Brittany, honey,” he said, “I think it’s time you left.” She left. Grandma Rose squeezed my hand, her eyes wet, and whispered, “Two croissants for Mr. Patterson, sweetheart. On the house.”