You’re forty-three years old, Diane, and you still think anyone wants to eat your

Brittany kept going. She told the suit man my numbers were “probably tragic,” that I’d been “running this hobby into the ground,” and that the building alone was worth more than I’d ever earn “playing pastry chef.” Kyle stared at his shoes. The suit man cleared his throat and asked if we could speak in private. I wiped my hands and led them to the small office in the back, the one with Mom’s photograph above the desk. Brittany followed, already triumphant, already spending money that wasn’t hers.

The suit man sat down and opened a folder. “Mrs. Halvorsen,” he said, “my name is Daniel Reyes. I represent the Brennan Hotel Group. We’ve been trying to reach you for four months about your corner lot.” Brittany’s smile twitched. He slid a paper across the desk. “Our final offer. Two point four million, with a lifetime lease-back so you can keep operating the bakery rent-free on the ground floor.”

The room went still. Brittany’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Kyle whispered, “Two point four?” Mr. Reyes glanced at them, then at me. “I should mention,” he added gently, “we only proceeded this far because your accountant forwarded last year’s books. You cleared four hundred thousand in profit. Your online dessert subscriptions alone outsell three of our hotel cafés combined.”

I finally looked at Brittany. Her foundation had gone gray. “Sad little cupcakes,” I said softly, tasting each word. “That’s what you called them. In front of my customers.” I turned to Mr. Reyes and signed the top page without breaking eye contact with her. Then I stood up. “Kyle, you can stay. You’re still my brother.” I opened the office door. “Brittany, you can leave. And please don’t come back. The hobby is closed to you.”

She walked out past a line of customers who had heard everything. One of them, an older woman who came in every Sunday for cinnamon rolls, started clapping. Then another. By the time Brittany hit the sidewalk, my whole bakery was applauding. I went back to the counter, picked up the piping bag, and finished the lemon cake. My hands weren’t shaking anymore.