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“Happy to discuss a refund in person at 4 p.m. Please bring any remaining cake and your receipt.”
She replied instantly, “On my way.
By 3:50 p.m., the bakery looked more like a courtroom than a cozy shop. The half-eaten cake sat on the counter like it was Exhibit A in a food crime trial. Next to it, I laid out the manila folder with all the receipts and time logs, a printed copy of our policy card, and my laptop queued up with Kayla’s story saved offline, just in case she decided to delete it later.
Grandma wiped the counter again, even though it had been spotless for the past 10 minutes.
“Are you sure we should go through with this?” she asked in a whisper, her voice barely above the hum of the fridge.
I met her eyes.
“We made a cake. She made a scene. Now it’s time to tell the truth.”
The bell chimed.
Dad walked in first, a little disheveled in his office clothes.
His tie was loose, his shirt wrinkled like he’d just come from a nap he didn’t enjoy. Susan followed right behind him, stiff and sharp in her pressed blazer, her lips set in a line so thin it looked drawn with a ruler.
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