Celeste’s tiny kitchen fills with the rich aroma of freshly baked raspberry bread, and for just a fleeting moment, the chaos of my life feels far away. Almost. But the sharp trill of my phone snaps me back to reality, vibrating on the counter for the tenth time this morning. Mama's name glows on the screen. I’ve resisted her calls all week, unable to deal with the inevitable uncomfortable exchange.

Something about the persistence today makes me answer before I can second-guess myself.

“Mama?” I say hesitantly.

“Scarlett! Thank goodness,” she cries, her voice trembling with emotion. I hear her sniffle through the line, her tears unmistakable. “Why haven’t you been answering? I’ve been so worried. How are you? How’s the baby?”

My chest tightens under the weight of her concern. Guilt seeps in, uninvited and insistent. No matter how fractured things are between us now, she’s still the woman who braided my hair and stayed up all night nursing me through countless fevers. “We’re fine, Mama. Truly. The baby’s healthy too, so please try not to worry.”

“Come home, Scarlett,” she pleads, her voice thick with desperation. “If you’ve really decided to leave Jonah, I’ll support you. We can take care of everything—money, a place to stay. Whatever you need.”

I suck in a shaky breath. The thought of retreating to my childhood room, being cocooned in someone else’s care while I untangle the mess in my life, tempts me for a fraction of a second. But then I remember the look on her face when she revealed Vivienne was her biological daughter. That look said more than words ever could: I no longer fit in the family’s puzzle.

“I can’t, Mama.”

“Why? You’re still my daughter, and I still love you just the same,” she says quickly, her tone imploring.

“But you have your real daughter now,” I say softly, closing my eyes as the hurt floods back. My grip tightens around the phone. “I don’t want to feel like an intruder in your perfect family. And it’s okay, Mama, really. You and Baba gave me everything—you loved me, raised me. Because of that, I know I can stand on my own now.”

“Sienna, don’t do this. Please,” she whispers, her heartbreak bleeding through the phone.

“Thank you, Mama,” I choke out, my voice cracking under the weight of emotion. “For everything.”

“Sienna—”

“And Mama? I love you too,” I say, the words searing in my throat as I press the end call button before she can respond. The phone slips out of my grasp, clattering onto the countertop. Slowly, I slide to the floor, curling into myself as waves of trembling overtake me.

Without a word, Celeste appears at my side, wrapping her arms tight around me. I don’t resist. I let the dam break, grief and anger pouring out as I mourn the family I lost and the mother I’ll never have again. Tears stream down my face, each one burning with bitterness.

“I’m so sorry,” I mutter into her shoulder, feeling small and shattered.

“Don’t apologize,” she murmurs. Her voice is gentle but firm. “Let it out. Keeping it bottled up isn’t healthy, you know.”

Her attempt to add a bit of humor earns a faint chuckle from me. She smiles, breaking the heaviness slightly.

“Now, come on,” she says once my tears subside. “Let’s eat some of that delicious bread you made. Nothing like food to fix a broken heart.”

Celeste helps me up and directs me to the cozy kitchen table. She slices a piece of the raspberry bread and takes a dramatic bite. Her eyes flutter closed as she lets out a ridiculous moan. For the first time all morning, I laugh—really laugh.

“Sienna, this is incredible!” she exclaims, pointing her half-eaten slice at me. “This is better than anything I’ve ever had from a bakery. When did you get this good?”

My smile falters as the memories surface, sharp edges and all. “I learned after I married Jonah,” I admit quietly. The truth is harder to say—I learned to bake because I overheard him complaining to his friends that I lacked domestic skills. The thought still stings.

“Well, whatever the reason, this is spectacular,” she declares, taking another enthusiastic bite. “It’s not too sweet. Perfectly balanced. Just addictive enough to keep you coming back.”

“It’s just bread,” I say, shaking my head, but her animated praise has me smiling again.

“No, Sienna, this is more than bread. This is art.” She sets down her slice and turns to me, eyes bright with an idea forming. “You know what? You should seriously consider doing this professionally.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean open your own bakery! You’re amazing at this. Why not turn it into a business?”

I stare at her like she’s lost it. “Celeste, I can’t just open a bakery. I don’t know anything about running a business. My life’s already overwhelming as it is.”

“So learn,” she says simply, leaning forward as her excitement grows. “Take classes. Research. Figure it out one step at a time. Think about it, habibiti—this could give you independence. You could work on your own schedule, build a life for yourself and your child on your terms.”

Her words settle in my mind, the weight of them sinking deeper as I consider the possibility. A future takes shape in my imagination—a bakery of my own, filled with the scent of fresh bread and the laughter of my child. A life where I create something meaningful with my own hands.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” I confess, though my voice betrays the flicker of hope growing within me.

“Start with me,” Celeste says, her confidence infectious. “I’ll help you. We’ll research everything together—licenses, kitchens, funding—all of it. What do you say?”

I gaze down at the bread in my hands, feeling the weight of possibility. Could I really build a life that’s mine? A life unbound from Jonah’s control or my place in my adopted family? A life where my dreams and my child’s future take center stage?

“Okay,” I whisper, the single word both terrifying and electrifying. “Let’s try it.”

Celeste squeals, leaping from her chair and spinning in an impromptu dance. “This is going to be incredible! You’re going to be incredible, Sienna! I just know it!”

Her joy sweeps away the lingering shadows of my phone call, replacing them with anticipation. Leaving may hurt, but for the first time, I have a path forward. A dream that’s mine. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll make it come true—one loaf at a time.