I picked up the napkin. I read it. Three sentences in Camille’s loopy handwriting, transferring full ownership of Wren Street Bakery to her upon Mom’s passing, plus power of attorney effective immediately. No witness line. No notary. Just a pen and a guilt trip.
“Camille,” I said quietly, “why now?”
She sighed like I was the slow one. “Because you’ll run it into the ground, June. You’re emotional. I have an MBA.”
I nodded. Folded the napkin. Slipped it into my apron pocket next to the receipts I’d been organizing for the estate attorney — the same attorney Mom had hired in March, the month Camille skipped the second opinion appointment to attend a yacht week in Mallorca.
“Okay,” I said. “Let me get you some water.”
I walked into the hallway. I didn’t go to the fountain. I went to room 214, where Mom’s lawyer, Mr. Adisa, had been waiting since seven because Mom had called him that morning during her one lucid hour. I handed him the napkin. He smiled the way tired good men smile.
Then I walked back in with two paper cups.
“Camille,” I said, sitting down, “Mom restructured everything in February. The bakery is in a trust. I’m the sole trustee. You were left the lake cabin and forty thousand dollars, contingent on you visiting her at least twice before — ” my voice caught — “before the end.”
Her face went the color of raw dough.
“You visited zero times, Camille. The contingency failed last Tuesday. The forty thousand reverts to the bakery’s employee fund. The cabin goes to the hospice that’s been holding our mother’s hand while you posted infinity pools.”
She stood up so fast the tray rattled. “You manipulated her — “
Mom’s voice, thin but clear from the pillow: “June. Lock the door behind her, baby.”
Camille froze. Mom had been awake the whole time.
I walked my sister to the elevator. I gave her back her pen. And at four the next morning, I opened the ovens, same as always — except this time, the deed in the safe upstairs finally had only one name on it. Mine. The one that smelled like flour.
