Hand over the bakery keys, Grandma. The court already agreed I’m the one who

Tyler slid the papers across the counter, knocking over a jar of biscotti. “Sign it, Nora. Don’t make this ugly. The judge already saw the medical records. Grandma isn’t competent to decide anymore.” I picked up the biscotti jar slowly and set it back upright. “Funny,” I said. “Because she was competent enough last March to sit across from her attorney, Margaret Chen, and restructure everything.” His smile flickered. “What are you talking about?” I reached under the counter and pulled out a slim blue folder Grandma had told me to keep there “for the day Tyler shows his real face.” Inside was a notarized deed transfer, dated fourteen months earlier, signed by two physicians attesting to her clarity, and witnessed by the parish priest she’d known for forty years. The bakery, the building, the recipes, the trademark on her famous cardamom bun — all of it had quietly become mine the spring before. The papers Tyler had been waving were filed against an entity that no longer owned a single oven. Tyler’s face went the color of raw dough. “That’s not possible. The probate filing—” “Was for assets she no longer holds,” I said. “You’d know that if you’d answered any of her calls last year.” Margaret Chen herself walked in then, right on cue, holding two coffees and a cease-and-desist for Tyler’s attempt to coerce a recovering patient. Behind her came a reporter from the Globe who’d been doing a piece on multigenerational women-owned shops in Dorchester. Tyler grabbed his folder and stumbled toward the door, muttering about lawyers. “Tyler,” I called after him. He turned. I held up a small white pastry bag. “Grandma said to give you this. On the house.” Inside was a single day-old roll and a handwritten note that read: This is the only thing in my life you ever earned. He left without it. Grandma shuffled out from the back, oxygen line trailing, and laughed for the first time in three weeks. I tied her apron over mine and turned the sign to OPEN.