I looked at her for a long time.
I thought about Britney at the head of my table. Garrett with his fork. A ring light and a stolen cake.
And I thought, they’re all hungry. Not for ham. For something else. Something I’d spent my whole life feeding other people, and never once been asked to name for myself.
I opened the folder.
“I’m going to tell you what I’m going to do,” I said. “And I’d like you to listen until the end.”
They waited.
“I’ve hired a lawyer. Her name is Priya Venkataraman. She’s sending cease-and-desist letters to Brand Hive Collective, to Loretta’s Kitchen and to each of you, about the use of my address, my kitchen and my mother’s recipes. The business registration will be withdrawn. Every photograph will be taken down. Every post. Every page.”
Britney’s mouth fell open.
“She’s also preparing a claim for the money you made off my food. I paid four hundred and twelve dollars for those ingredients. Marcy Dolan paid three hundred and eighty-five for that dinner. And I believe you sold to other people, too.”
“Eleanor…” Loretta began.
“I’ll want a full accounting. Every order, every dollar. Within thirty days.”
“We can’t,” Britney said. “The money’s already… we already spent…”
“Then you’ll tell me where it went.”
She stopped.
“And there’s one more thing,” I said. “I intend to write to Marcy Dolan myself. Denise Albright tells me her medical bills came to $1,840, and she missed a week of work at the bakery where she works. I’m going to pay those out of my own savings account. And I’m going to ask the three of you to pay me back.”
Garrett looked up, startled. “Mom, you don’t have to do that.”
“I do.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was my kitchen,” I said. “It was my food. I’d like to be responsible for it.”
“You’re…” He swallowed hard. “You’re better than us.”
“I’m not better,” I said. “I’m just the one who kept the receipts.”
Nobody moved.
And then, to my astonishment, Loretta reached into her handbag. She pulled out a small, soft, worn leather checkbook and a pen with a gold cap.
She uncapped the pen. And slowly, in a shaky, careful hand, she wrote a check.
$4,100.
She tore it out. She laid it on my table, right beside the flyer.
“That’s all I have in my own name,” she said quietly. “Everything else is in my late husband Harold’s trust. I’ll ask the trustee for more.”
“Loretta.”
“It isn’t payment.” Her voice caught. “It’s the beginning of an apology.”
I looked down at the check. Then up at her.
“I’d like you to do something else,” I said. “If you’re willing.”
“Anything.”
“Come to my kitchen on Saturday. Seven in the morning.”
She blinked.
“I’d like to teach you how to make a ham.”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
Ethan holds a degree in Communications from Zurich University, where he developed his expertise in storytelling, media strategy, and audience engagement. Known for his ability to blend creativity with analytical precision, he excels at creating content that not only entertains but also connects deeply with readers.
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