My daughter had survived.
That Saturday, Melissa came to Grant Family Market.
The visit was arranged carefully.
No customers.
No employees except Maria Chen, my manager of fifteen years, who had known Melissa since she was a teenager.
I unlocked the front door at eight in the morning.
Melissa stood outside with Calvin and Dr. Foster.
Ava held her hand.
That sight alone nearly undid me.
“Ready?” I asked.
Melissa looked through the glass.
“I think so.”
The bell above the door rang as she entered.
She froze.
Her eyes moved from the produce section to the handwritten specials board and finally toward the bakery counter.
“I know this smell.”
“Bread,” Ava said.
Melissa smiled.
“No.”
She walked toward the back.
“Cinnamon.”
Maria covered her mouth.
Every December, Dorothy had made cinnamon rolls in the market kitchen using a recipe she refused to write down because she insisted measuring spoons were for people who lacked imagination.
