PENELOPE
He left again.
Not a word. Not even a goodbye. Just… vanished—like a magician with a grudge and a private jet.
By the time I got to the bakery, the sun had barely set across the pavement and Maya was already inside, blasting music and loading trays into the oven like her life depended on it. The girl had too much energy for that hour of the morning. I envied it. Somewhere along the line, my own spark had dulled a little. Or maybe it was just buried under layers of emotional debris and a husband who disappeared like mist.
“You’re early,” I had greeted Maya with a tired smile.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Maya chirped. “So I figured I’d rise with the dough.”
I gave a half-laugh, tucking a stray curl behind my ear as I washed my hands and slipped into my apron.
I stared at the oven time
