Page 11 of This Life of Mine

“You can’t buy happiness, but you can bake it.”

The words make me smile every time.

By 5:30 a.m., I hear the faint purr of Val’s car pulling in the parking lot. Punctual as ever, even when she claims she hates mornings. The door swings open, and her voice follows, singing off-key but bright. “Well, good morning, sunshine,” I call out, already smiling before she appears.

“Screw this, Lina,” Val groans. “I still hate waking up this early.”

She steps into view, dark brown, thick, heavy hair—loose down her back. Pale skin despite her Mexican roots—something sheused to joke about endlessly—freckled enough to soften the sour lines of her expression.

“You were singing,” I tease.

“I was wailing,” she corrects, hanging her coat and tying her apron with practiced ease. “There’s a difference.”

I laugh, shaking my head.

“Coffee?” I offer.

She exhales, like she’s been waiting for permission to breathe. “Yes. Before I start resenting this place.”

I exit the kitchen as she follows me to the espresso machine. I begin making her favorite latte, already knowing she’ll be fully locked in five minutes from now.

Val might complain about early mornings, but she always shows up. Once she commits, she gives her full effort.

She groans dramatically. “Please make it the strong one. The kind that makes me forget I only slept four hours.”

“Coming right up,” I say.

While the espresso brews, Val starts the daily checklist—reviewing online orders, inventory, and checking the delivery of butter and flour that arrived before dawn.

She moves slower than I do in the morning, but she’s efficient in her own way. We’ve been doing this long enough that we barely need to speak.

Our movements complement each other, like a choreography we didn’t have to rehearse.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” she asks, stretching.

I hesitate, my hands stilling on the countertop. “Some,” I lie. “I had one ofthosedreams again.”

Her smile fades into something gentle. “TheColeones?”

I nod.

She moves closer, briefly touching my arm. “I’m sorry. I know how much those suck.”

“Yeah,” I say, cleaning my hands. “It appears my subconscious hasn’t realized there’s a divorce decree.”

Val chuckles softly, but her eyes stay kind. “Well, tell your subconscious you own a damn bakery. You have to be up before the butt crack of dawn and don’t have time for that bullshit.”

I smile, grateful for her blend of compassion and humor. “Working on it.”

The espresso machine hisses, the smell filling the kitchen like comfort itself. I hand Val her mug, steaming and foamy, then glance towards the front windows where faint sunlight is beginning to filter through the curtains.

“Speaking of, it’s almost dawn,” I say.

Val takes a sip and groans in delight. “You make coffee better than anyone I know. Maybe it’s the dark blend of trauma.”

“Adds depth of flavor,” I deadpan.

She snorts mid-sip, nearly spilling it.