I always thought opening the bakery I’d dreamed of forever would be the happiest chapter of my life — until my husband’s kin started treating it like their own free buffet. Day after day, they swooped in and grabbed treats without dropping a dime… and my husband just stood by, doing nothing. I held my tongue — until one morning, I arrived to find the front door already open…
A thin mist draped the street like a gauzy veil as I approached my bakery.
I had to squint to make out the name painted on the window: Sweet Haven.
I’d gazed at that name countless times, but it still felt like a dream. I slid my key into the lock.
The door swung wide, and I flipped on the lights with that same bubbly thrill I’d felt every morning for the past three weeks. Then I glanced at the display case — and my stomach dropped.
It was half-empty.
No receipts by the till. No stray coins or bills. Just naked shelves where my lemon tarts and chocolate brioche should’ve been.
“Again?
Really?” I whispered, my voice trembling more than I’d expected. You need to understand — this wasn’t just about missing pastries.
It was about everything I’d sacrificed to bring this dream to life. I grew up with little.
In my world, dreams were like fancy coats: lovely to imagine, but far out of reach.
Most families around me juggled multiple jobs just to put dinner on the table. Dreaming was a privilege we couldn’t afford. But my nana was different.
Even when the cupboards were nearly bare, she worked wonders with a bit of flour and whatever sugar she could scrape together.
Her hands danced with elegance, molding dough with a tenderness that felt like poetry. “Love and care,” she’d say, flour dusting her weathered hands.
“That’s the recipe for good bread.”
Nana taught me to bake, and over time, I learned to craft something tasty from almost nothing — even the dented apples from the neighbor’s tired tree could turn into a pie in her hands. Somewhere in those moments, I started dreaming of my own bakery.
Nana always rooted for me, so when she passed, I knew I had to chase it — to honor her and all she’d taught me.
I worked shifts as a supermarket cashier, skipped treats like café visits or movie nights, and didn’t even dream of getaways. I survived on budget ramen and clearance frozen meals. Every spare dollar went into a jar labeled “Sweet Haven” in my shaky handwriting.
It took years to save enough to open the bakery.
During that time, I got married, earned a promotion, learned new recipes, and took free online business courses. Opening day was everything I’d hoped for — and then some.
Cutting the ribbon felt like stepping into a story I never thought I’d star in. The coffee machine purred gently, and I watched faces glow after tasting my muffins, cinnamon twists, and bagels.
My husband’s family swarmed the place that first day.
Cousins I barely knew, aunts who’d never noticed me, even Uncle Hal who only showed up to grumble. They cheered as I cut the ribbon. They hugged me and said things like, “We’re so proud!” and “You did it, girl!”
Then they started asking for free samples, and my heart just softened.
“Just a few!
We’re family, right?” said Aunt Faye, her eyes gleaming. “Can’t wait to tell everyone about this place!”
Of course, I agreed.
I was floating on joy — joy spun from sugar and pride. But that joy didn’t last.
The next morning, the bell chimed again.
Aunt Faye, back for a lemon-blueberry scone. An hour later, two cousins strolled in for chocolate cupcakes. And it kept going.
Every day, they came back — bigger bags, empty hands, and louder boasts about how much they “backed” me.
Then cousin Lila showed up with her coworkers. “They’ve heard all about your baking!” she said, snatching six cupcakes without a glance at the till.
I kept baking more, burning through supplies daily. I started waking at 4 instead of 5 to keep up with what they took.
The exhaustion stung, but their words cut deeper.
One morning, Uncle Hal leaned over the counter, smirking like he owned the place. “It’s not like it’s costing you anything,” he said, grabbing a loaf of rye. “We’re family.”
Cousin Mara even complained my coffee was too weak.
And don’t get me started on Aunt Faye!
“How much for a cinnamon twist?” she asked one day. “That’s ridiculous!
And there’s way too much spice in them anyway.”
Like she’d ever paid for one. When I told my husband how I felt, he just shrugged.
“They’re just excited, love.
Let them enjoy it. They’ll pay soon.”
By week three, paying customers were gone by 10 a.m. — the shelves were already bare.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
