Chapter 7 - A Sister’s Desperation
Six months passed. Winter gave way to a breathtaking spring. Maple Street burst into bloom with cherry blossoms and tulips, and the heavy cloud that had hung over our family was completely dispelled.
With the insurance payout and the grant money from Grand Horizon, The Flour Garden had been completely rebuilt. It was twice its original size now, featuring a gorgeous glass display front, modern marble countertops, and a cozy seating nook with plush velvet armchairs where parents could read to their kids.
One rainy afternoon in May, while Penny was at school and Wade was helping me unload a shipment of organic vanilla beans, a letter arrived in the mail.
It had a state prison return address.
I held the thin white envelope in my hand for a long time, staring at Ria’s neat, slanted handwriting on the front.
"You don't have to open it, Clara," Wade said gently, stopping his work to stand beside me.
"I know," I said. "But I think I need to."
I slid my thumb under the flap and pulled out the single sheet of lined notebook paper.
Clara,
They put me in the laundry facility here. My hands are rough now. I have calluses on my palms, just like the ones you used to get from kneading dough all day. I used to laugh at those calluses. I thought they were a sign of failure.
I was wrong.
I spend eighteen hours a day in silence, thinking about what I did at Penny's birthday. I see the cake hitting the grass every time I close my eyes. I see the look in Mom's eyes when the video played.
I’m not writing this to ask you to forgive me. I know I don't deserve that, and I know I’ll never be part of your life again. I'm writing this because I finally found something in Grandma’s old chest in Mom's attic before I was arrested—something I was going to burn out of spite, but I hid it behind the water heater in the basement instead.
It's Grandma's personal journal from 1954. The one from her journey from France. It has her original sourdough starter instructions and the letter from her mother.
It belongs to you. Take it. And... I’m sorry. For everything.
Ria
I read the letter twice, my tears falling onto the rough blue lines of the notebook paper.
"Is she telling the truth?" Wade asked, reading over my shoulder.
"There's only one way to find out," I said.
An hour later, Wade and I were in the basement of our childhood home, shines heavy flashlights behind the old rusted water heater. Tucked deep into the narrow gap between the brick wall and the metal pipes was a small package wrapped in oiled brown paper.
Wade reached his long arm down and pulled it out carefully.
I sat on the wooden cellar steps and unspooled the twine. Inside was a faded, leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed with age, smelling faintly of dried lavender and old parchment.
I opened the front cover. Written in elegant, copperplate cursive was my grandmother's name: Claire Dupont Vance, 1954.
Glued inside the front cover was a small, pressed flower and a handwritten recipe for "Le Pain de l'Amour"—The Bread of Love—with a note at the bottom: To my future granddaughter Clara, who will hold the light when the day grows dark.
May you like
I held the journal to my chest and cried—not tears of sadness, but tears of profound gratitude.
Ria had tried to steal my past, but in doing so, she had unwittingly led me back to the purest part of my legacy. She was paying for her crimes, but in that lonely prison cell, a tiny spark of humanity had finally flickered back to life within her. I hoped that one day, after her sentence was served, she would find peace. But for now, my focus was entirely on the bright future ahead.
