I made the decision on a Sunday.
Not dramatically. There was no moment of thunder, no cinematic clarity, no sudden conviction arriving like a weather front moving in from the ocean. It happened the way most honest things happened — quietly, in an ordinary place, while I was doing something completely unrelated.
I was reorganising the storage room at the back of the bakery.
It was the kind of task I saved for Sundays when the shop was closed — methodical, physical, requiring just enough attention to keep the front of my mind occupied while the back of it did what it wanted. I was moving flour sacks and relabelling spice jars and making a list of what needed ordering, and somewhere between the vanilla extract and the cardamom I stopped moving and stood in the middle of the small cluttered
