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When I handed her the keys, Grandma cried. She really cried and told me no one had ever given her something that was hers.
Her hands trembled when she turned the key in the lock for the first time.
Locals lined up for her lemon bars and peach pies, and her layer cakes became the stuff of small-town legend. She knew everyone by name, and they knew her laugh before they even stepped inside.
Then Kayla showed up.
It was just before closing last week. I remember because the clock read 4:45 p.m., and the place smelled like vanilla and rising dough.
Kayla breezed in like she owned the sidewalk, sunglasses perched on her head like she’d just stepped off a yacht.
“Babe!” she chirped, waving past the customers waiting in line. “I need a cake. Like, the cake.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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