I’m Stella, twenty-five, and if there’s a single person I’d pick to stand behind forever, it’s my grandma, Evelyn. She’s sixty-eight, small as a sparrow, and steady in the way a warm mug feels in cold hands—quiet, kind, sharper than anyone gives her credit for.

She practically raised me after my mom died. My dad remarried fast, and with his new wife, Susan, came her daughter Kayla—two years older, born with a spotlight for a birthmark, always sure the world owed her front-row seats and a crown. From day one she treated me like charity and Grandma like stale furniture someone forgot to move out. “The old lady who makes too much food,” she’d say, while she and Susan complained that my mom’s photo made the living room “heavy.”

So when a scratch-off ticket hit for fifty thousand this spring, I knew exactly where some of it was going. Grandma’s bakery had been a dream since before I could spell sugar. We found a narrow storefront on the corner—sunny, with a creaky back door and a window that practically begged for lace curtains. We painted the walls soft yellow. We put on faint jazz in the mornings. The first day we opened, the whole place smelled like cinnamon and butter, and Grandma turned the key in the lock with hands that trembled.

People came. Word spread. Her lemon bars disappeared before noon, peach pies sold out on Saturdays, and the layer cakes? They started showing up at every baby shower and retirement party within ten miles. She learned names fast. People learned her laugh.

Two months in, with the chalkboard menu dusted and the mixer finally silent, Kayla blew in like a weather front—sunglasses on her head, voice pitched for a room with cameras. “Babe! I need a cake. Like, the cake.” She twirled a curl, scanned the iced cases. “My party’s tomorrow. Theme is ‘Goddess of the Night.’ Extra everything. Two tiers. Maybe three. Gold leaf, drip, glitter. Make it iconic or I will literally die.”

I opened my mouth to say we needed more notice, but Grandma gave me that look that says let it go. She set down her piping bag, wiped her hands, and said, “We’ll figure it out, sweetheart.”

“And money’s tight,” Kayla added, like she was sharing something soulful. “The venue overcharged me, so… maybe just cost of ingredients? Family discount?”

My jaw tightened. Grandma didn’t blink. “You’re family,” she said. “Pay for flour, butter, and eggs. Don’t worry about the rest.”

That little flicker in her eyes—the one that shows she hears herself being used—flashed and vanished. “Kindness is the only recipe sometimes,” she told me later, when I couldn’t stop pacing.

We stayed late, started the layers that night, and came back before sunrise to finish. Bottom tier: dark chocolate with salted caramel buttercream. Top tier: vanilla bean with raspberry compote. We tinted meringue blush and airbrushed it into a deep night blue. I painted Orion in edible gold across the side because Kayla once announced that constellation was her “cosmic soulmate.” We dusted sugar stars, added a shimmer you could almost hear, and topped it with a mirrored gold “KAYLA • 27.”

When she arrived, she shrieked so loud a toddler covered his ears. “OH. MY. GOD. I’m going to cry,” she gasped, posing with it like it was a trophy. She kissed Grandma’s cheek, swiped a finger through a rosette, and left with her friends. The total—a joke at forty-six dollars and some change—hit my phone as a Venmo, drowned in heart emojis. She posted a reel: “My fam is the best. #blessed #supportsmallbusiness #goddessoftheNIGHT.”

For a minute, I let myself believe maybe we’d turned a corner.

The next afternoon, the bell over the door slammed so hard the glass rattled. Kayla stormed in, sunglasses on, hair scraped into a high ponytail, glitter clinging to her. She dropped a bakery box on the counter with a thud.

Inside looked like a raccoon got invited to the party. Half the cake was gone. The other half slumped and gouged, the constellation smeared into a bruise.

Grandma came out, wiping her hands on her apron. “Oh dear,” she said softly. “Is there something wrong?”

“It was stale,” Kayla announced, arms folded. “And salty? Everyone said it was off. It ruined the vibe. I need a full refund. Honestly, compensation would be fair.”

“We baked it yesterday,” I said. “Our logs—”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, it tasted old. The frosting slid. It was like, melting.”

“Did you refrigerate it?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

She let out a tiny laugh. “We put it by the DJ booth. It’s a cake, not an organ transplant.”

Grandma’s fingers shook. “Buttercream needs to stay cool, sweetheart.”

Kayla leaned in, and the sweetness fell off her like a loose button. “Maybe you should retire if you can’t bake a simple cake, Evelyn.”

Hearing my grandma’s name in that tone felt like a match to dry grass. I kept my voice even. “We don’t refund half-eaten cakes. If there was a problem, you call immediately. This has clearly been served.”

“Stop gaslighting me,” she snapped. “Just give me the refund. I have fourteen thousand followers. If I post a review, it will matter.”

“It was a gift,” Grandma reminded her gently. “I charged ingredients.”

“A gift I regret accepting.” She snapped the box shut. “You have until five to send the money. Or I’m posting.”

The bell chimed. The door closed. The room stayed charged, like air before lightning.

“Maybe I’m too old for this,” Grandma whispered, polishing the same square of counter until I could see my face in it.

“No,” I said, taking her hand. “She doesn’t get to do this. Not to you.”

“Let it go,” she sighed. “It’s not worth it.”

“It is,” I said. “This time it is.”

Step one: receipts. We document everything because flour and butter are perishable and so is people’s grace. I pulled a folder and filled it—prep sheets, oven logs with times and temperatures, fridge readings, a clear photo of the finished cake, the pickup slip with Kayla’s rushed signature at 5:02 p.m. I printed our policies—refunds, care instructions—because the pink script by the register sometimes becomes invisible to people who don’t think rules apply to them.

While Grandma kneaded scone dough to work off her nerves, I went digging online. Kayla’s story was still live: the cake glowing under fairy lights, her voice gushing “LOOK HOW GORGEOUS,” the knife going through clean layers, a caption, “Salted caramel is LIFE.” I screen-recorded everything. Her friend Jenna’s tags were easier: a boomerang of Kayla feeding her boyfriend cake, comments reading “Best cake ever” and “Where is this from?” with the reply, “Her grandma’s bakery—soooo good!” Screenshots, saved.

Then I called my dad. “Come by at four,” I said. “Bring Susan.”

“What happened?” he asked, already tired.

“It’s about Kayla.”

“Of course it is,” he said.

I texted Kayla: “Happy to discuss a refund in person at 4. Bring any remaining cake and your receipt.”

She answered instantly. “On my way. Don’t waste my time.”

By 3:50, the bakery looked like a tiny courtroom. The mangled half-cake sat center stage. Next to it, the manila folder, our policies, my laptop queued with captured stories in case she deleted them. Grandma wiped an already-clean counter and asked, small, “Are you sure?”

“We made a cake. She made a scene,” I said. “Now we tell the truth.”

Dad arrived looking rumpled and worried, his tie crooked. Susan followed, blade-sharp in a blazer, mouth set. “What’s this?” she asked.

The bell chimed again. Kayla swept in with high heels and the kind of sunglasses that say I don’t intend to be wrong. “Just so you know,” she announced, lifting her phone, “I’m recording this. Transparency is important.”

Dad’s voice cut like a clap. “Put the phone away. Family conversation.”

She huffed, dropped it in her bag, and turned her stare on me. “Refund? My fans want to know if you’re making this right.”

“Let’s go over a few things,” I said, sliding over the photo of the pristine cake. “Baked yesterday morning. Picked up at 5:02. Here are the logs.” I turned the policy placard around. “All sales final once it leaves our care. Call within an hour if there’s an issue. You didn’t call. And you brought back half a cake. Which means it was eaten.”

“You’re making stuff up,” she shot back.

I pressed play on the laptop. Her voice filled the room, high and happy: “LOOK HOW GORGEOUS.” The video showed clean slices and gleaming frosting. Then Jenna’s clip: Kayla laughing, feeding her boyfriend a bite. Comments praising the cake. The reply with our bakery’s name.

Silence hit harder than a shout.

Dad looked at her, face sagging a little. “Explain.”

Her cheeks flushed. “That was before we realized—”

“Realized what?” I asked. “That you could try to eat cake and have it too?”

Susan’s voice had lost its edge. “You paid cost because Evelyn was generous,” she said to Kayla, low. “This is embarrassing.”

Kayla’s chin trembled, eyes going glossy on command. “You always take their side,” she said. “It was stale. People were just being nice.”

Grandma stepped forward. Her hands still shook, but her voice didn’t. “I’m sixty-eight,” she said. “I’ve baked more cakes than you’ve lit candles for. I made that cake with my hands and my heart. I charged what I pay at the store because I hoped we could be a family that shows up for each other. If you didn’t like it, you could’ve told me, kindly. Instead you threatened me. For what? Because cheap wasn’t free?”

The room felt different after that. Still. Clear.

“I’m still leaving a review,” Kayla muttered.

“Leave what you like,” I said. “We’ll respond with the timeline, your videos, your captions. We’ll contact the venue if we need to. And if you post anything defamatory, we’ll talk to a lawyer.”

I slid a paper across the counter. “Also, we won’t be accepting orders from you anymore.”

She blinked. “You’re banning me? From a bakery?”

“Yes,” I said. “From our bakery.”

Even Grandma, who always leaves a door cracked, didn’t protest.

Dad exhaled, long and tired. “Apologize to your grandmother,” he said.

Kayla opened her mouth, closed it, grabbed her bag. She reached for the cake box, reconsidered how ridiculous it would look walking out with a destroyed half-cake, and left it. The bell clanged behind her. The door shut, and with it, the charge finally drained out of the air.

Susan stepped forward and surprised me. “Evelyn,” she said, quiet, “I’m sorry.” She pulled her wallet from her purse. “Charge me for a full cake. And for your time.”

“It’s not necessary,” Grandma started.

“Please,” Susan said. For the first time since I’d known her, she sounded almost soft. “Let me do one decent thing.”

I rang it up—two hundred sixty-eight, the real price—watched her sign, watched a sliver of something complicated pass across her face. “I’ll talk to her,” she said, and followed my dad out.

I sat hard on a stool and covered my face with my hands. My heart finally caught up to my body and shook there, thudding.

Grandma touched my shoulder. “You were brave,” she said.

“I was shaking the whole time,” I admitted.

“Bravery is just shaking while still standing up,” she said.

She went back to the mixer; I scrubbed the counter a little too long. Later a regular came in and asked what smelled so good, and Grandma laughed, light again. The next morning there were two Yelp reviews—one from a stranger praising our lemon bars, and one vague, snide one-star that disappeared after we flagged it with screenshots. The venue DM’d us a photo of the cake glowing by the DJ booth with a winking emoji. People came in that day and told Grandma they’d heard about the birthday cake and wanted to try the salted caramel. We sold out by noon.

At closing, I flipped the sign to CLOSED and turned off the case lights. Grandma stood in the doorway, keys in hand, looking at the little yellow room that was hers now, really hers.

“You didn’t have to fight,” she said.

“I think I did,” I told her. “For you. For the bakery. For me.”

She smiled that small, proud smile that warmed my ribs. “Then I’ll bake the scones tomorrow,” she said, “and you can paint whatever constellation you like.”