Page 53 of A Taste of Vanilla

Black coffee. Vanilla bean scone. Lavender honey tart.

He said very little.

Then, he wrote about me. It wasn’t a long review, by any means. Not even his biggest column that week. But enough.

A hidden gem with playful instincts and serious technical promise.

I printed that sentence.

Framed it. Hung it near the register like proof.

Customers came after that. Then catering requests. Wedding consults. Then people said,I read about you.

I worked hard before that review, and I worked hard after it. But standing here now, staring at the frame on the wall near the register, the praise feels heavy.

A hidden gem. Discovered by Whitaker. How many people think that’s the reason I survived? How many people will think I lost my shine now that Grant and I are over?

Oliver follows my gaze, his eyes landing on the framed review. He says nothing.

For a second, the bakery feels too small. So I walk to the wall, and I take it down.

Marley goes still, and Oliver watches me carefully.

I look at Barrett’s words behind glass. They meant something once. They helped. I can admit that without letting them own me. Those words did not wake up at three in the morning and make dough. They did not learn payroll through panic. They didn’t memorize regulars’ orders or scrub ovens or pay loans or learn to make perfectly smooth buttercream through cramps so bad I saw stars. They did not smile at customers while wondering whether I could afford a plumber because unlike Oliver, I don’t have a plumbing-disaster fund.

Those words opened a door for me, but I built the room.

I set the frame on the counter. Not in the trash yet, just down.

Oliver nods once.

I unlock the door and the bell jingles. For a moment, nothing happens.

And then Mrs. Alvarez from the tailor shop two doors downwalks in with her reusable coffee cup and the purple cardigan she wears every single Thursday without fail.

She takes a look at me, then Marley, and then Oliver.

“My husband is alive,” she announces. “So I assume this is not my emergency.”

A laugh jumps out of me. “Good morning, Mrs. Alvarez.”

“Is it?”

“Debatable,” Oliver mutters.

She comes to the counter and squints at the chalkboard. “Men Are Decorative at Best Latte?”

“Yes!”

“What’s in it?”

“Brown sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, oat milk, cold foam, and gold sprinkles.”

“Gold sprinkles?”

“For decoration.”

She nods slowly. “My first husband should have had sprinkles. He had no other purpose.”