Dad, Out of My Kitchen
Two weeks later, Claire confirmed the company had withdrawn from Grant’s proposed documentary.
Grant sent one message asking whether Willa would consider a private conversation.
She said she wasn’t ready.
We respected that.
Our expansion folder still sat on my desk.
“SOMEDAY.”
No miracle investor had appeared.
One Saturday, Willa found me at my desk.
“What are you working on, Dad?”
“Just looking over our expansion plans again.”
She went quiet.
“You could’ve had your new bakeries,” she said.
“Not that way.”
She leaned against the counter.
“I’m glad you didn’t decide for me. Even when he showed up.”
I thought of a four-year-old gripping my sleeve because she couldn’t trust me to walk to the sink and come back.
“You make your own decisions,” I told her.
“Except about doing dishes?”
“Especially about doing dishes.”
“Terrible policy.”
She headed toward the kitchen, and I followed.
She took a mixing bowl from the cupboard.
Measured flour without asking for help.
Then pointed toward the doorway.
“Dad. Out of my kitchen.”
I turned to leave.
“And come back in 20 minutes,” she added. “I need someone to taste the frosting.”
May you like
I smiled.
“I’ll be here.”
