Page 3 of Daddies' Holiday Toy

I wasn’t meaning to ignore her all day, but between pretending like I’m busy in order to try and attract customers in—a well outdated piece of advice, I’m now realizing—and the creeping dread of having to admit to myself that things aren’t going well this week, let along this month, I just…

Couldn’t.

What’s worse is once I call her back, I’ll have no excuse to give my mother on why I didn’t pick up when she called earlier.

It’s not like I’ve been buried in orders and had no time to pick up the phone, which is something she’ll definitely ask me about.

She’s never been one to helicopter-parent me, but she’s always worried and is constantly wanting updates about the bakery.

I think it’s her little way of still keeping tabs on me without actually coming around and busting down my front door.

Normally I have no problem telling her about my day.

As the quiet days have turned into quiet weeks, I’m beginning to worry that the world has completely moved on and I’m standing here, still baking my heart out, in this tiny shop that used to bring me so much joy.

Every day since October hit, I’ve been telling myself tomorrow will be different.

That tomorrow I’ll have my regulars back and they’ll be bringing friends with them.

That the boom of business I’ve been waiting for is right around the corner and that holiday rush will finally hit.

It has to happen. Right?

But unfortunately, the shorter the days grow, that silent promise—or is it a plea at this point?—to myself keeps breaking. Day by day.

It’s so frustrating, not just disappointing.

Shaking my head, I dust off the thin sheen of flour collected on the front of my phone from the flour and tap on my mom’s contact before bringing it up to my ear.

She picks up on the third ring, her voice warm and with a slight lilt she gets when she’s had a healthy glass of wine with dinner…or two.

“Hi, sweetheart. You still at the shop? It’s pretty late.”

I wonder who she went out with.

“Yeah. Just closing up.” I don’t bother to mask the fatigue in my voice.

She’ll just pick up on it anyway and call me out all the same.

Tonight isn’t a night I feel like trying to put on a mask and pretend like everything’s going right in life anyway.

“Were you busy? I didn’t hear from you all day.”

I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Not even close. I had maybe four customers all week. Two of which only wanted coffee from the Keurig on their way to work. It’s like everyone suddenly forgot about the holidays. Don’t people bring in baked goods to work anymore?”

“Oh, honey,” my mom murmurs, her voice dropping into that concerned tone I know all too well.

It’s the same one she used to use when I’d call her crying during finals at school. “You’re working so hard. Something’s bound to give sometime soon. Once December hits, you’ll have a bunch of orders coming in. That’s how it always works. People can’t resist your cakes and cookies during the holidays. You know it, I know it. Hell, the entire neighborhood does, too!”

My teeth sink into the inside of my cheek again as I fish the shop’s keys out of my pocket and head out the back, locking the place up behind me.

I want to believe her, but I know the numbers will be talking an entirely different scenario.

I know exactly how tight my margins are getting and how many of those late notices are already piling up on my desk.

I doubt I even have until December to wait it out and pray for a miracle like she’s hoping for.

Bills don’t care about holiday cheer and my building’s landlorddefinitelydoesn’t care no matter how much of my soul I’m pouring into every tray of cookies that comes out of my oven.