That was our last Christmas with her.
I was fourteen when cancer took her. Six months from diagnosis to gone, and she spent those final weeks teaching Lily and me everything she knew about the bakery. All those little tricks that made Flour & Fable special, passed down like sacred knowledge.
Dad worked himself half to death after. Double shifts at the local diner, trying to keep us fed and housed while juggling two grieving daughters. I watched him age ten years in one, watched him choose between paying the electric bill and buying groceries, watched him cry in the bathroom when he thought we couldn’t hear.
We survived. Barely.
And now, every December, we drive to Great-Aunt Martha’s mansion, where Mom’s relatives ask when I’m going to find an Alpha, make passive-aggressive comments about the quaint little bakery, and pretend they’ve been supportive all along.
They didn’t visit when Mom was dying. Didn’t help when we were drowning. Didn’t call, didn’t care, didn’t do a damn thing.
But Mom loved them anyway. So we go.
“Fine,” I hear myself say, throat tight. “I’ll be there.”
“Good girl. Lily can’t make it this year, so it’ll just be us two.”
I nearly drive through a red light. “Wait, what? Lily’s bailing?”
“She’s got some wedding out of town for one of her Alphas’ friends and they’re taking their babies. Left me a message this morning.”
“If she gets to skip, I should get to skip!”
Dad chuckles. “Life’s not fair, kiddo.”
“I hate this.”
“I know. Pick me up at five tomorrow? Don’t be late. Love you.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
He hangs up, and I’m left stewing in frustration and dread.
Just great. An evening with relatives who think I’m a failure, asking invasive questions about my nonexistent love life.
This will be fun.
I pull up to Flour & Fable Bakery. Lily has already turned on the Christmas lights framing the windows, illuminating displays of gingerbread houses and elaborate frosted cookies that probably took her hours.
The place looks warm. Inviting. Safe.
I park on the street, grab my purse, and push through the front door. Bells jingle overhead, and the scent of fresh bread and cinnamon wraps around me.
God, I love this place.
It will always feel like home. Mom’s recipes, Mom’s dream.
The display cases are packed with holiday specials. Gingerbread cookies with intricate icing. Sugar cookies shaped like snowflakes and bells. Cranberry orange scones. Those little spiced apple tarts that sell out by noon. Peppermint bark brownies. Lemon raspberry macarons with edible gold leaf because Lily likes to get fancy sometimes.
Everything is gorgeous. Professional. Exactly the kind of quality that makes this bakery the most popular in three counties.
Lily is behind the counter in a red sweater with a reindeer on it that’s so aggressively festive it should require a permit. Her curls are piled on her head in a messy bun, and she’s packing cookies into small paper boxes.
She spots me and grins. “Hey, you. How’d yesterday go? Did anyone get trampled?”
I collapse against the counter, dropping my purse on the floor. “Coffee first. Crisis processing second.”
“You look like someone kicked your puppy.” She’s already moving to the espresso machine, a beautiful Italian beast that makes coffee so good it’s basically drugs. “What happened?”
