I thought opening Sweet Haven, my dream bakery, would be the happiest moment of my life. For years I’d scraped by, saving every penny in a mason jar labeled with that name. My grandmother had taught me how to bake with love and patience, and opening day felt like honoring her memory. Customers cheered, neighbors smiled, and my husband’s family showed up in full force, clapping and asking for “a few samples, since we’re family.”

At first, I didn’t mind. It felt good to share. But the requests never stopped. Day after day, uncles, cousins, and aunts waltzed in with empty hands and walked out with boxes of pastries—never paying, never thanking. Soon, they brought coworkers too. “You’ll get exposure,” cousin Marie chirped while loading up cupcakes. By the third week, real customers were leaving by 10 a.m. because my shelves were bare.

When I told my husband, he shrugged. “They’ll pay eventually.” But my heart sank lower each morning, especially the day I found the display case half-empty before I’d sold a single pastry. That’s when I caught Aunt Linda inside with my spare keys, arms full of croissants. Something in me snapped.

I planned my revenge. On Saturday, I hosted a “family-only tasting event.” They arrived in fancy clothes, expecting a feast. Instead, they found name cards, each plate holding a crumb and each mug a sip of coffee. I welcomed them sweetly: “Today’s menu is what you’ve left for me to sell.”

The silence was delicious. Shouts followed, but I didn’t flinch. That night, I changed the locks and wrote on my chalkboard: “Love is free. Food isn’t.”

Now, Sweet Haven thrives. Customers pay, smile, and return. My husband’s family stays away. And every morning, I remember Grandma’s words—love and patience make dough rise. But respect keeps a dream alive.