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.
