The snow had been falling since dawn that Christmas Eve, blanketing Manhattan in the kind of silence that made even the busiest streets feel sacred. Thomas Bennett walked briskly down Madison Avenue with his four-year-old daughter Lily secure in his arms, her small face pressed against the shoulder of his tailored navy overcoat. To anyone passing by, he looked like a man who had everything figured out—the CEO of Bennett Capital Management, perfectly dressed, moving with the confident stride of success.
They didn’t see the exhaustion behind his eyes.
They didn’t know his wife Jennifer had died eighteen months ago, or that he was still learning how to be both mother and father to Lily. They couldn’t see him lying awake at three in the morning wondering if he was doing any of it right, if his daughter would remember her mother, if love alone was enough when you were fumbling through grief while trying to hold a small person’s entire world together.
The office visit had taken longer than expected. By the time Thomas and Lily emerged back onto the street, afternoon light was already fading into that soft blue twilight that comes early in December.
Lily was hungry and starting to whine, and Thomas realized with a sinking feeling that he’d forgotten to pack her snacks.
“Daddy, I’m hungry,” Lily said for the third time, her voice taking on that edge that meant tears weren’t far behind. “I know, sweetheart. We’ll get you something right now.”
Across the street, a small bakery glowed warmly in the dusk.
Golden Crust Bakery, read the sign above the door.
Through the windows he could see display cases filled with bread and pastries, and twinkle lights draped along the walls. It looked warm and safe, like someone cared about it.
Like home. The bell chimed softly as Thomas pushed open the door.
Warmth and the heavenly scent of fresh bread enveloped them immediately.
The bakery was beautifully decorated for the holidays—strings of lights along the crown molding, a small tree in the corner adorned with ornaments shaped like croissants, wreaths on the walls. Behind the counter stood a woman arranging pastries, perhaps thirty years old, with dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail and wearing a simple green apron over a cream sweater. Her face had a quiet beauty, though Thomas noticed the tiredness around her eyes, the slight slump of her shoulders that spoke of burdens carried too long.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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