I was 25 when I watched my mother come home in tears — her apron still dusted with flour, her kindness mistaken for theft. I couldn’t protect her then.
But ten years later, I got my chance.
And I made sure karma showed up wearing polished shoes and a fake executive smile.
My mom, Cathy, worked at Beller’s Bakery for almost two decades. She was the heartbeat of that place — the reason people came back even when the bread wasn’t warm. Her cinnamon rolls had magic in them, but it was her warmth that people craved.
