Grandpa, however, had always seen me differently.
He’d spent thirty-eight years working at a flour mill, but baking was his greatest pleasure.
Every Saturday during my childhood, he’d invite me into his kitchen.
We ground cardamom in an old iron grinder.
Mixed dough.
Braided loaves.
And waited for the smell of fresh bread to fill the house.
When I was nine, I made a terribly crooked braid.
Grandpa took one look at it, sliced off a piece, and smiled.
“It’s bread, Greta. It’ll still taste wonderful.”
My mother never understood why I enjoyed those afternoons.
Once, she found me covered in flour and shook her head.
“Derek’s going places. You’re going to spend your life smelling like yeast.”
That evening, she threw away the loaf I’d brought home.
I cried.
The following Saturday, Grandpa placed my bread in a paper bag with my name written across the front.
