Grandpa was recovering from eye surgery.
My mother had temporarily taken over helping him with his finances.
When I mentioned calling him about a short-term loan, she offered to ask on my behalf.
Two days later, she returned with his supposed answer.
“Your grandfather said he’s not throwing good money after bad.”
I remember standing beside my workbench, holding a dough scraper.
“That’s what he said?”
She nodded.
“He thinks you should accept reality.”
I didn’t call him.
I’d spent my childhood hearing that I wasn’t as capable as Derek.
And suddenly, I believed Grandpa thought so too.
I struggled for several more months.
Eventually, I closed the bakery.
I sold the equipment to settle outstanding obligations.
Every supplier was paid.
But I left behind the two things I couldn’t bear to take.
My sourdough starter.
And the little two-dollar bill beneath the cash register.
