Hand over the bakery keys, Grandma, or I’ll have you declared mentally incompetent by

I wiped my hands on my apron, slow and deliberate, the way Frank used to wipe grease off his on the porch swing. “Brittany, honey,” I said softly, “would you and your lawyer like a cinnamon roll before we talk business?” She rolled her eyes. “Cut the sweet grandma act. Sign the papers.” I smiled and walked to the old oak desk in the corner, the one Frank built with his own hands. I pulled out a folder of my own. Thicker. Older. Tied with kitchen twine. “Funny thing about being old and slow,” I said. “You have a lot of time to read.” I slid the folder across the counter. Inside were the deed, the trust documents, and a letter dated three years ago, signed by Brittany herself, in which she’d legally renounced any claim to the bakery in exchange for the seventy-five thousand dollars I gave her to start her failed cryptocurrency company. Her lawyer’s face went the color of unbaked dough. “Eleanor,” he stammered, “you didn’t mention—” “You didn’t ask,” I said. Then I pulled out a second envelope. A letter from the National Historic Register. The bakery had been designated a protected landmark last month. No developer could touch a single brick. Brittany’s mouth opened and closed like a fish on a hook. “And one more thing, sweetheart.” I nodded to the corner, where my security camera blinked a steady red. “Threatening to falsely declare an elder incompetent? That’s a felony in North Carolina. My lawyer, Marjorie, she’s coming over for coffee at ten. She loves a good cinnamon roll. Should I tell her to bring the paperwork, or will you be apologizing first?” Brittany grabbed her folder and ran. Her heels clicked across my checkered floor like a retreat drumbeat. I turned back to my sourdough, kissed two fingers, and pressed them to the jar. “Still got it, Frank.” The oven timer dinged. Morning customers were lining up at the door, and the cinnamon rolls were perfect.”
}