Jillie sits on her usual counter stool twisting the strings of her Sprinkle Supervisor apron nervously between her fingers.
She thinks Sadie can’t hear her.
I glance toward the storage room doorway automatically.
Still closed.
Good.
Because if Sadie heard that question, it would break her heart.
Mine already feels cracked wide open.
I set the flour bags down carefully before answering. Not because I’m avoiding the question. Because I suddenly understand how much my answer matters.
Really matters.
Jillie watches me with those too-wise eyes children get after disappointment teaches them caution too young. And suddenly I see everything clearly.
The waiting by windows. The fear underneath hope. The way she checks people’s faces before trusting promises. No six-year-old should already know how to brace for abandonment.
“I’d miss you very much,” I say quietly. The honesty in my voice surprises even me.
Jillie studies my face carefully. “Even if hockey took you away?”
The wording nearly destroys me.
Not: if you wanted to leave.If hockey took you away.
Like even she understands that sometimes careers swallow people whole.
I crouch beside her stool slowly until we’re eye level. “Hockey doesn’t get to decide who matters to me.”
Something flickers softly across her face. Relief. Hope. Careful trust.
Then she whispers: “Okay.”
One tiny word, but it settles somewhere deep inside my chest like an anchor dropping.
Because the horrifying truth is…
I already miss them whenever I leave just for a day.
The bakery.
Briar Cove.
Sadie laughing flour-covered behind the counter.
Jillie yelling dramatic frosting opinions at six in the morning.
They already feel like mine.
That realization should terrify me. Instead, it feels devastatingly right.
The storage room door swings open, and Sadie steps back into the kitchen carrying coffee filters. She immediately notices the expression on my face.
“You okay?”
