Sign the building over to me, Mom, or I swear I’ll have you declared

“Incompetent,” I repeated, like I was tasting the word. “That’s a big legal step, sweetheart. You sure you want to do that on camera?”

Brittany’s phone wavered. Marcus puffed up. “The building’s worth four million now that the district’s rezoned. You’re seventy in two years. It’s time.”

I walked past him to the front door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and turned the lock. Then I pulled a manila folder from under the register — the one I’d kept ready for eleven months, ever since I overheard him on Thanksgiving telling Brittany the bakery was “basically already his.”

“Funny thing about this building, Marcus.” I slid the folder across the counter. “I sold it in March.”

His face went the color of raw dough. “You — what?”

“To the Salvadoran couple who’ve been renting the back kitchen for their catering company. Rosa and Miguel. They’re paying me out monthly for ten years. I keep baking, they own the walls, and when I retire, they keep the name. It’s all notarized.”

“You can’t —”

“I already did.” I tapped the folder. “And about that competency hearing? My lawyer thought you might try something. So last month I had a full neuropsych evaluation. Scored in the ninety-fourth percentile. The report’s in there too. Right next to the police report I filed after you forged my signature on that loan in February.”

Brittany lowered the phone.

“I didn’t press charges, Marcus. I wanted to give you a chance. But you just walked into my shop, in front of my staff, and threatened me.” I nodded at Brittany. “On video.”

He lunged for the folder. I slid it back.

“This copy’s mine. Yours is already with the district attorney, as of nine this morning. I had a feeling about tonight.”

The wedding cake sat between us, two tiny sugar figures holding hands on top. I’d made one just like it for his wedding next month. I picked up my piping bag and went back to work.

“Lock the door behind you, sweetheart. The deadbolt sticks.”