His mother’s bakery.
Ingrid Angstrom had baked bread there long before I was born.
And Grandpa had quietly bought it back.
I turned another page.
There were photographs of renovations.
Electrical improvements.
Plumbing work.
A new kitchen layout.
Everything had been prepared for a bakery.
My bakery.
I could barely breathe.
Why hadn’t Grandpa told me?
Then I found a bank record dated during the summer my original business had collapsed.
A transfer of $60,000.
The amount I’d desperately needed to keep my doors open until the next wholesale contract began.
But the money hadn’t gone to me.
It had been applied toward Derek’s lakefront property purchase.
I read the record again.
And again.
My mother had told me Grandpa refused to help.
Yet here was proof that he’d approved the exact financial assistance I’d requested.
With shaking hands, I opened his letter.
My dear Greta,
