Because that was Anthony… wrong, stubborn, loving Anthony.
He had watched me work double shifts when his father got sick. He’d watched me sell my grandmother’s bracelet when the roof needed replacing.
And he’d watched me give up my bakery dream with a shrug so practiced even I almost believed it didn’t hurt.
“He didn’t get to decide that for me,” I whispered. “He loved me, but he took the choice anyway.”
That was Anthony… wrong, stubborn, loving Anthony.
I pulled the phone away from my ear, then brought it back.
“I would have stayed. I would have carried it with him. He didn’t get to choose the easy version of me.”
“I know,” Becca said gently.
“But he did,” I said. “He chose it anyway.”
***
I lowered the phone and looked through the final folder.
For a second, I almost closed it. Because whatever was left in there… it was the rest of the truth.
Inside were trust papers, a business account, a lease option, and papers showing he’d sold his father’s 1968 Mustang to fund it. He had loved that car since he was seventeen.
His notes were scribbled in the margins:
- Good foot traffic.
- Ask about the front window.
- Ember will hate the original paint color, change to sage green.
He had loved that car since he was seventeen.
I laughed through my tears. “You sneaky man.”
At the top of the first page, he had written the name in block letters:
“Ember Bakes.”
I covered my mouth.
Twenty years ago, I had wanted a bakery so badly I could smell it in my sleep.
Under the trust papers was one last sheet.
“You sneaky man.”
“My Ember,
Thank you for every ordinary day you made feel like magic.
If I could do this all again, I’d only look for you. Tired, flour on her shirt, telling me not to fuss while quietly carrying the whole world.
I would ask you again. I would choose you again. In every version of this life, I would still walk toward you.”
“I’d only look for you.”
When the first customer came in, I almost panicked. Not about the baking, I knew baking.
For a moment, I forgot Anthony wouldn’t be there to say, See? I told you people would line up.
The woman pointed at the framed pink pillow under the sign. “That pink pillow looks important,” she said. “Family thing?”
My hand paused, then I smiled. “Yes. That’s where my husband kept the biggest moments of our life.”
