Before You Knew Me

Chapter Three — A New Beginning

Elara's POV

Going home without Dad was harder than I expected.

The funeral was over. The flowers had been taken away. The chairs had been packed up. The last of the relatives had said their goodbyes, promising to call, promising that I wasn't alone.

But when I finally walked through the front door of our house, none of those promises seemed to matter.

Because Dad wasn't there.

The house was quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Empty quiet.

The kind of silence that seemed to settle into the walls.

I stood in the entrance for several seconds, staring into the living room.

His chair was still there.

His jacket was still hanging over the back of it, exactly where he'd left it.

A newspaper sat folded on the coffee table. There was a mug beside it. I felt tears falling down my cheeks.

For one stupid second, my mind convinced me that if I waited long enough, I'd hear the front door open.

I'd hear his keys.

His footsteps.

His voice calling my name.

I swallowed.

"Elara?"

I turned. Aunt Margaret stood behind me, watching carefully.

Thomas was beside her, carrying one of the remaining boxes of flowers from the funeral.

"We're here," Margaret said softly.

I nodded.

I knew they were.

For the next few weeks, I wasn't alone.

My relatives stayed with me while we dealt with everything Dad had left behind. There were lawyers, paperwork, meetings, phone calls and endless documents that I barely had the energy to understand.

The will was finalized. The accounts were settled. The estate was divided.

And eventually, the inheritance was transferred into my name.

It was a lot of money, more than I'd ever had in my life.

Enough to change my life completely.

But when I looked at the number sitting in my account, I felt almost nothing.

Money couldn't bring Dad back.

It couldn't fill the empty chair.

It couldn't make the house feel like home again.

Then the lawyers gave me the documents concerning my mother's inheritance.

I had known there was something waiting for me from Mom, but her inheritance had been arranged years ago, and it hadn't been accessible to me until Dad passed away.

I don't know what I expected. Maybe money, but I didn't expect the folder.

I sat at the dining room table and slowly opened it.

Inside were financial documents, property information, business plans and pages upon pages of handwritten notes.

I frowned, confused.

Then I saw the title.

Isabella's Bakery & Café — Business Proposal.

I stopped breathing for a moment I turned the pages. My mother's handwriting was everywhere.

Plans for the layout, Estimated startup costs, Suppliers, Ingredient prices, Projected turnover, Menus, Marketing ideas, Customer demographics.

Even sketches of what she wanted the interior to look like.

Mom hadn't just dreamed about opening a bakery.

She had planned the entire thing.

She'd had everything prepared.

Everything except the opportunity to finish it.

Her illness had forced her to put the dream aside.

I ran my fingers over one of her handwritten notes.

"Something warm. Something beautiful. Somewhere people feel at home."

My eyes filled with tears. For the first time since Mom died and Dad died, something other than grief stirred inside me.

An idea.

A purpose.

I looked down at the plans again.

"What if I finish it?"

The words came out as a whisper.

And somehow, once I'd said them, I couldn't stop thinking about it.

I had studied business, I had studied accountancy, and I finished pastry school.

I'd spent years learning how money worked, how businesses were built, how to manage expenses and how to plan for growth.

Mom had already done the dreaming.

She had already done the planning.

Maybe I could do the rest.

Maybe I could take what she had started and give it a life.

The next morning, I went to Uncle Thomas. He was like a second dad to me. I was so happy and blessed to have him.

He was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee.

"I want to open Mom's bakery."

He lowered his mug.

"What?" he asked, almost spitting his coffee on the table.

"I want to finish what she started."

Thomas stared at me for several seconds.

Then he smiled. That smile told me everything.

"You've got yourself a business partner."

I laughed softly.

"You don't even know what I'm offering." I laughed.

"I don't need to," he said, confident in me.

"Uncle Thomas..." I screeched, jumping into his arms and hugging him. He almost fell off the chair.

"I believe in you." His answer was immediate.

"I'll help you, whatever you need in there." He meant it.

He even resigned from the restaurant where he'd been working.

When I found out, I was horrified.

"You can't just quit your job," I gasped.

"I can," he said with certainty.

He didn't even care that he might not get a salary. Of course, I would still make sure he had one.

I smiled.

"Uncle Thomas, I can pay you."

He shook his head.

"Not until the business can afford it." He pointed at the plans scattered across the table.

"Until then, I'm investing something else."

"What?" I asked because what else could he have? I didn't need more money.

"My time."

That was Uncle Thomas. He believed in the dream before there was even a building to put it in, so we began.

I had decided the house was too large for me now. Every room reminded me of Dad. It used to be Mom, but I always had Dad. But now none of them were here, so it was empty.

Selling it was painful, but eventually I understood that leaving didn't mean abandoning him. I wasn't selling my parents. I was selling a house.

Their memories would come with me.

We found a small home for me within walking distance of the property we would eventually choose for the bakery.

It wasn't huge. It wasn't fancy, but it was mine.

A small little place, one bedroom, one bathroom, an open floor plan for the kitchen and lounge area. It was perfect for me and, more importantly, it would be close enough that I could walk to the places I needed.

Especially when we found it.

The perfect little building.

It sat directly across from several large office buildings, on a street filled with people during the morning rush and lunch hour.

The building itself needed work.

A lot of work.

But I could see it.

I had the vision for Mom's bakery.

Now, our bakery.

We decided to name it Bell & Gabe's.

Bell, from Isabella.

Gabe, from Gabriel.

For my parents.

Together in something that would continue long after they were gone.

The renovations took months, and there were days when I wondered if we'd ever finish.

Uncle Thomas and I worked constantly—painting walls, replacing floors, installing counters, arranging furniture and turning Mom's old plans into something real.

Slowly, the empty building became the bakery she'd once dreamed about.

We painted the walls soft pastel green with touches of lavender and muted purple. Small floral details decorated the space, with hanging plants, fresh flowers in little glass jars and warm lights that made everything feel cozy and inviting.

The bakery counter became the heart of the room, filled with glass displays of cupcakes, croissants, cinnamon rolls, fruit danishes, lemon tarts, brownies and macarons.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries seemed to settle permanently into the air.

It was small, pretty and welcoming.

Exactly what Mom had imagined.

We hired six staff members—Mia and Sophie to handle the registers and coffee station, Noah and Lily as waiters, and Daniela and Marcus as our pastry chefs.

Thomas became my assistant manager, while I handled the business side of things and whatever else needed doing. He handled the staff and the work. I still enjoyed doing that myself. I love knowing people and seeing them for who they are, and I enjoyed baking with the chefs. All of them were shocked that the boss would be working.

Then, finally, after months of planning, renovating and working until exhaustion, we opened the doors to Bell & Gabe's.

The first morning, I stood outside staring at the sign.

BELL & GABE'S

The letters were simple and elegant.

Beneath them was a smaller line:

Bakery • Café • Homemade with love.

I stared at it for a long moment.

"Mom would love this," I whispered.

Thomas stood beside me.

"So would your dad."

I smiled.

"Yeah, we would definitely get their stamp of approval."

The doors opened at seven.

By seven fifteen, we had customers.

By eight, there was a line.

By nine, the café was full.

Office workers came in for coffee before starting their shifts.

People stopped by for pastries.

Parents brought their children in for cupcakes.

Employees from the surrounding buildings began making Bell & Gabe's part of their morning routine.

And Thomas had been right about the location.

The office buildings gave us a steady stream of customers every weekday.

By lunchtime, almost every table was occupied.

Our coffee became one of the first things people talked about.

The beans were freshly ground for every order, and the smell alone seemed to pull people through the door.

But the pastries became the real stars.

Our cupcakes disappeared faster than we could put them out.

The vanilla cupcakes with strawberry buttercream were especially popular.

So were the chocolate cupcakes with rich espresso frosting.

Mom's cinnamon rolls became another favourite.

Soft, warm and covered in just enough cream cheese icing.

Within weeks, people started posting about us online.

Five-star reviews appeared on our pages.

"Best coffee I've had in ages."

"The cupcakes are AMAZING."

"Beautiful little café with the sweetest atmosphere."

"The cinnamon rolls are dangerous. I came in for one and left with six."

I laughed when I read that one.

Not every review was perfect.

There were one or two complaints.

Mostly about the queues.

"Coffee was great, but the line was ridiculously long."

"Lovely place, but you'll have to wait during the morning rush."

Thomas read the reviews and shrugged.

"I'll take a complaint about a long line over a complaint about empty tables."

I laughed.

"Agreed, or bad service."

He tilted his hat to me and, in the most horrible British accent, he said, "Yes ma'am, you are right, ma'am. Service is important too."

We laughed. After so long, it felt so good to laugh, and for fun, Uncle Thomas always knew how to make me laugh.

Business was booming.

The numbers were better than we'd predicted.

Every month, the revenue increased.

And then, a few months after we opened, another business moved into the building across the road.

A security company.

Suddenly, we had even more customers.

Security officers grabbing coffee before shifts.

We even had to hire more staff and expand, buying the building next door. We started renovations, and soon we had an even bigger bakery.

Employees stopping by during breaks.

People picking up breakfast before work.

Eventually, Bell & Gabe's became more than I could have ever imagined.

What started as one little bakery had grown into four branches across the city.

There were now four branches in total. Number one was still managed by myself and Uncle Thomas,

The other three were managed by people I trusted: my Aunt Margaret, my cousin Gray, who was 32 and Aunt Margaret's older son and my closest friend, and the fourth by my other cousin Sarah, who was 28, Uncle Tom's daughter. We were like sisters; we did everything together.

Our little café became busier than ever.

And somehow, standing behind that counter every morning, watching people laugh over coffee and leave with boxes of pastries, I realized something.

I hadn't forgotten my parents.

I hadn't moved on from them.

I had simply found a way to carry them with me.