With a chuckle, I juggle the containers into one arm so I can wrestle the truck door open. “The bakery is doing great. You and Dad are going to love your trip. I’m glad you’re finally taking one.”
It took months to convince the bakery wouldn’t crumble without them. They’ve earned this retirement. Dad’s always wanted to see the Grand Canyon; Mom’s wanted to see the bakeries of Prague. It suits them. They’re two people who couldn’t be more different, but somehow made it work.
My parents are proof that opposites don’t just attract; they build.
They’re both native Texans, but Mom still has one foot in the Old World. Maybe that’s where I get it—the tug between old roots and new dreams. Laila feels it too, even if she’d never say so out loud. We’re a blend of both old and new. At first glance, we probably look a little confusing, especially when neither our first nor last names shout our heritage. But it’s here in the land, in our traditions, in our food, our middle names.
Dad fell in love with Mom thirty-some odd years ago, although he’d never worked land a day in his life. But he slipped right into their family and learned everything he needed to for the day they took over for her parents.
They started the bakery together, and it was hard for them to hand it off to us. There are still odd days here and there when they show up, ready to work in the early morning hours. We let them, because the bakery is just as much their legacy as each of ours. But I think seeing that it’s in capable hands helps ease their peace of mind.
When I was a kid, I thought they were perfect. As an adult, I know better. They just worked hard at trying.
“Mom,” I ask suddenly, “how did you and Dad make itwork? I’m sure a lot of people thought you were too different. Didn’t that scare you?”
She tips her head, surprised. I rarely ask questions like this.
“Of course it did,” she says, her voice as soft as her expression. “But your father always said fear is just love in disguise. You’re afraid of losing something that truly matters to you.”
She adjusts the old shawl that Piper from the bridal shop knitted her as a side project, carrying the scent of yeast, butter, and vanilla from the kitchen. “It took a lot of patience with each other. He taught me how to appeal to the hearts of people, and I taught him to knead dough until it listened. My family taught us both to love this land.”
I grin at her. “That sounds like something I can understand.”
“See, honey? It’s all the same recipe. You just have to get the proportions right.”
“You’re right, Mama,” I murmur.
She sobers a little. “It’s been a while since I reminded you, but I think you need to hear it again: some people are like bread, zlato. They need time, warmth, and space to rise.”
Loveandhoneyin the same conversation. She’s definitely worried about me.
But it’s good advice, even though I didn’t need to be reminded. I know this about Laila.
“Why do you think I need to hear it?” I ask.
“Because you’ve got that look of love, lásko.” She says it like she’s caught me red-handed, dough and all. “It’s obvious to your mama. But you also look sad, and so I needto remind you of one more thing. Do you remember that study your father was talking about?”
Dad talks about a lot of studies, so this feels a bit like fishing blind.
“Could you give me a little more context?”
She huffs and sets her hands on her hips. “The one about the words. When you said the mean things, the bread molded faster, and when you said the loving things, the bread was fine.”
“Mom, that wasn’t a controlled experiment?—”
She crosses her arms; her face a serious scowl. “Words matter, Holden Samuel Lockwood. Patience and caring can only go so far. Sometimes you need to usewords.”
“Maybe I have used words.” She’s got me feeling twelve again—like I burned the bread after trying to do my own thing instead of listening to her.
“Maybe you have. But perhaps they weren’t the right ones.”
Maybe that’s why I keep thinking about the things I never say, the ones that get stuck somewhere between my heart and my hands. Maybe someday I’ll find a way to send them.
I don’t love what she’s insinuating. Laila knows I love her, but maybe she doesn’t believe it. That’s a hard pill to swallow, but there’s a difference. Enough that it could be the difference between staying and running.
“I’ll think about it, Mom.”
“One more thing,” she says, and I brace myself because with her, one thing usually means five.
