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LIV

The scent of vanilla and warm butter envelops me as I knead the dough, my hands working in a familiar rhythm. Sunlight streams through the cafe windows, catching the specks of dust dancing in the air. I smile, feeling the day's potential rising like the bread in my oven.

"Nonna always said, ' La vita è come una ricetta – devi aggiungere amore ,'" I murmur to myself, channeling her wisdom. Life is like a recipe – you must put love into it.

I'm so lost in thought, I almost miss the chime of the bell as my first customer enters. Looking up, I see Mrs. Watkins, her silver hair neatly coiffed as always.

"Hello, Mrs. Watkins!" I call out, wiping my floury hands on my apron. "How are you this beautiful morning?"

She beams, settling into her usual spot by the window. "All the better for seeing you, dear. And smelling those heavenly creations of yours."

I laugh, already reaching for her favorite almond croissant.

"Ah, you flatter me! But tell me, how is that grandbaby of yours?

Still keeping everyone on their toes, I bet.

" I place her pastry in a takeout box. I adore these morning chats.

They remind me why I opened this cafe – not just to bake, but to create a warm, welcoming space in the heart of Ponsonby.

Mrs. Watkins chuckles, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, you have no idea. He's discovered the joy of 'no' and uses it liberally. Especially at bedtime."

"Sounds like quite the handful." I set down her coffee with a flourish. "Maybe next time, bring him in for a treat. A little dolce might sweeten his disposition."

She takes a sip of her latte, sighing contentedly. "You and your magic touch, Liv. I swear, you could charm the clouds from the sky if you set your mind to it."

A warmth blooms in my chest that has nothing to do with the ovens behind me. This, I think, is why I push through the early mornings and long hours. For connections like these, as sweet and satisfying as any pastry I could create.

"Now, Mrs. Watkins," I say with a wink, "don't go giving away all my secrets. A girl's got to maintain some mystery, after all!"

The bell above the café door chimes again after Mrs Watkins’ departure, and I look up from the cinnamon rolls I'm glazing, my hands sticky with sugar. This time, my heart sinks. Mama is gliding in, her Italian designer heels clicking against the hardwood floor.

"Ciao, Liv." Her eyes sweep over the mismatched chairs and vintage teacups lining the shelves. Her lips purse like she's tasted something sour. "I see you're still... pursuing this little hobby of yours."

I wipe my hands on my flour-dusted apron, forcing a smile. "Mama, what a surprise! What brings you to Ponsonby?"

She sniffs the air, nostrils flaring slightly. "Can't a mother check on her daughter? Though I must say, tesoro , the aroma is... interesting. Not quite like Nonna's kitchen, is it?"

I bite my tongue, tasting the metallic sting of frustration. "It's a blend of cinnamon and cardamom," I explain, my voice tight. "A new recipe I'm experimenting with."

Mama's eyebrows arch. "Experimenting? Liv, darling, there's no need to reinvent the wheel. Our family's recipes have stood the test of time for a reason."

I take a deep breath, willing myself to stay calm. "I'm not reinventing, Mama. I'm innovating. Creating something uniquely mine."

"Ah, yes." She sighs, running a manicured finger along the counter. "Your grand ambition. Tell me, cara , how long do you plan to play at being a... what do they call it? A 'small business owner'?"

The words sting, and my cheeks flush. "This isn't playing, Mama. This is my life, my passion."

"Passion doesn't pay the bills, Liv," she says, her tone sharp. "Or secure a respectable future. Have you given any more thought to that law school application?"

I grip the edge of the counter, anchoring myself. "I have a respectable future right here, Mama. My café is thriving. I'm happy."

"Happy?" She laughs, a brittle sound. "Happiness is fleeting, cara. Security, tradition – these are what matter."

As she speaks, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the polished espresso machine. Flour dusts my cheek, and there's a smear of cinnamon on my forehead. I see Nonna's eyes staring back at me, filled with the same fire that always lit up when she baked.

"No, Mama," I say softly, straightening my spine. "What matters is being true to yourself. Nonna taught me that."

"Sofia indulges you too much." Her eyes flick to the empty tables and the busy counter, seeing only what she wants to see. Her displeasure is palpable, almost a living thing between us.

I take a deep breath, a silent count to three. "I wish you’d see this for what it is. Not a rebellion. Not a phase. It's my life."

"Your life?" Her words cut like a razor, leaving invisible marks. "Livia, your life should mean more than rolling pastry and cleaning tables."

"It means more than that to me." I look her in the eye, hoping she can see past her disappointment. "I’m building something here. A future."

"Do you really believe this is a future?" she asks, and it feels like the weight of a thousand family dinners presses down on me.

"I do." I answer with more certainty than I feel, trying to stay calm, trying not to shout. "I love what I do. Isn't that what matters?"

She sighs, an entire universe of frustration in a single breath. "You always were stubborn."

"It runs in the family," I say, an attempt at humor that falls flat.

"You think your little pastry dreams make you special, Liv?” Her words crack the air, as sharp as a gunshot.Mama’s eyes bore into me, as cold and fierce as an arctic front.

We’re in the back office, standing like old enemies across a battlefield of unopened mail and stale coffee cups.

It smells of betrayal and mildew. The fridge hums like a second heartbeat.

Her voice cuts through it, clear and brutal: “I hold the deeds to this property. Keep straying from what’s proper, and you’ll be evicted before you know it. ”

The words slam into me, and I stagger back like I've taken a punch. She's serious. She's really going to do this. For a second, I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but stare at her and wonder how this went so far.

"You wouldn’t," I manage, my voice small and choked. But we both know she would. She has, and she's using it against me.

"Try me." Her voice is ice, her gaze unwavering. “We’ve all done what’s necessary to keep the family’s reputation intact. I suggest you do the same.”

"You think this is necessary?" My voice shakes, equal parts disbelief and fury. I feel the walls closing in, the enormity of it pressing down on me. "Threatening me? Trying to take away everything I've built?"

"I’m giving you an opportunity," she says, so calmly it chills me to the bone. "An opportunity to reconsider your choices before it’s too late."

Her words echo, and my mind reels. I see it all, every effort, every late night, every early morning—all of it crumbling away because she wants me to fit her mold. To be what she’s decided I should be. I taste bitterness, more potent than my burnt espresso attempts. "And if I don’t?"

The corner of her mouth twitches, something like pity in the hard lines of her face. "You’re not a child anymore, Livia. The world doesn’t indulge you just because you wish it to."

I turn, pace, feel the room shrink with every step.

I think of the cafe, the energy, the life, the mess and beauty of it all.

She’s using the deeds to break me, and it’s almost working.

Almost. But then, like a sudden flash of light, my anger turns to something else.

It hardens, solidifies. I feel it build inside me, steady and fierce.

"This is low, even for you, Ma." I stop pacing, meet her gaze head-on, my voice growing stronger, clearer. "But you won’t scare me into giving up."

Her eyes flicker, just for a moment. "I’m giving you a chance, Livia," she repeats, slower this time. “Don’t be foolish.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or scream. "Foolish is thinking you can control me forever."

She steps forward, and the scent of her expensive perfume mingles with the musty room. "You’re part of this family whether you like it or not. That means something."

"Not if it means losing who I am. Who I want to be." I cross my arms, feeling a flicker of triumph in my chest.

She shakes her head, an iceberg splitting off from a glacier. "You can’t do this alone."

"You’d be surprised," I say, defiant, knowing I’ve surprised myself already. “And you’ll be more surprised when you see that I mean it.”

She watches me, a hawk sizing up prey. "If you turn your back now, it’s your choice," she says, but there’s something almost uncertain in her voice. "But don’t expect us to pick up the pieces."

"If it comes to that, I’ll handle it." I surprise even myself with the steel in my voice.

"So much pride," she says, a note of disappointment threading through her words.

"Pride, passion, future—all of it." I straighten my shoulders. Let her see I’m not the scared little girl she remembers. "None of which you can take from me, Ma."

We stand there, the silence between us louder than the accusations and ultimatums. The fridge hums on, a stubborn reminder of everything else I refuse to let die. Her eyes search mine, trying to find a weakness, a crack. She finds none.

"This is your final warning," she says, but I hear something else. Something almost like defeat.

"Then you’ve wasted it."

Mama's eyes flash, but before she can respond, the bell chimes yet again.

I glance up out of habit. My heart plummets to my stomach faster than a soufflé in a slammed oven.

"Ricky?" I squeak, flour puffing from my hands as they clench involuntarily.

My ex-fiancé strolls in, all perfect slicked back dark hair and megawatt smile. "Hey, Liv! Fancy running into you here."

I want to scream, "It's my café, you dingbat!" Instead, I manage a strangled, "What a surprise."

Mom's eyes light up like I've just presented her with a tray of her favorite cannoli. "Ricky! How wonderful to see you. Why don't you join us?"

As Ricky slides onto the stool next to Mom, his expensive suit matching her outfit, I have a sudden urge to dive into my industrial-sized mixer. Maybe if I spin fast enough, I'll wake up from this nightmare.

"Liv," Mom says, her voice dripping with honey-sweet manipulation, "doesn't Ricky look handsome today? He's been promoted at the Bank, you know."

I nod mechanically, my hands automatically reaching for a rolling pin. Not to bake—to steady myself. Or maybe to bonk myself unconscious.

"You two always made such a lovely couple." Mom’s eyes dart between us like she's watching a tennis match. "So well-matched. Both from good families, both educated?—"

"Mom," I interject, my voice strained, "Ricky and I aren't?—"

"Now, now." She waves a manicured hand. "The past is the past. You're both single, successful... well, mostly successful." She offers a pointed look at my apron.

My cheeks burn hotter than my wood-fired oven. "Mom, please?—"

"Liv," Ricky chimes in, flashing that toothpaste-commercial smile, "your mom's right. Maybe we should give it another shot. I've grown up a lot since... you know."

Since you cheated on me with your intern? I grip my rolling pin tighter, knuckles white against the wood.

"I appreciate the thought," I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds, "but I'm happy with my life right now. My café, my baking—it's not just a job. It's my passion."

Mom sighs dramatically. "Passion doesn't pay the bills, tesoro. Or give me grandchildren."

I close my eyes, inhaling the comforting scent of vanilla and cinnamon. When I open them, I meet Mom's gaze directly. "Maybe not. But it makes me happy. And that's worth something too."

The words hang in the air, fragrant as freshly baked brioche. Mom's lips purse like she's tasted something sour, while Ricky's smile falters, a crack in his perfect veneer.

I turn away, busying myself with the espresso machine. The familiar hiss and gurgle grounds me, even as my thoughts churn like whipped cream.

"You know, Liv…" Ricky's voice cuts through the café's ambient chatter. "I always admired your determination. Even if I didn't... understand it back then."

I glance over my shoulder. For a fleeting moment, I see a glimpse of the boy I once loved. But the memory of tear-stained pillows and shattered trust floods back, and I steel myself.

"Thanks, Ricky," I say, my tone polite but firm. "But I'm not looking for admiration. I'm looking for respect."

Mom huffs, but I ignore her, focusing on the velvety stream of coffee filling the cup. The rich aroma wraps around me like a hug from Nonna Sofia, bolstering my resolve.

Ricky kisses my mom’s hand, and waves to me. “I’ll see you around, bella .”

Yeah, hopefully never. I wipe a non-existent spill on the counter like wiping him away out of my life.

The bell chimes again, and a group of regulars spills in, their laughter filling the café.

"Liv!" calls out Mrs. Henderson, a silver-haired woman with twinkling eyes. "Those cinnamon rolls smell divine! You've outdone yourself again, dear."

I smile, genuine this time. "Grazie, Mrs. Henderson. They'll be ready in just a moment."

As I turn back to Mama, I see something flicker across her face – surprise, maybe even a hint of pride? But it's gone in an instant, replaced by her usual mask of disapproval.

"Well," she says, smoothing her blazer. "I can see you're busy with your... customers. We'll discuss this another time, Liv."

As she turns to leave, I call out, "Mama, wait." I quickly box up a cinnamon roll, still warm from the oven. "Please, try it. For me?"

She hesitates, then takes the box with a small nod. As the door closes behind her, I let out a long breath, the tension slowly ebbing from my shoulders.

I turn back to my waiting customers, plastering on a bright smile. But inside, a small part of me wonders if I'll ever be able to bridge the gap between my dreams and my mother's expectations.

As I lock up Dolce Vita, the scent of cinnamon and warm bread lingers in the air. I pause, my hand on the door, and glance back at the cozy interior. My little slice of heaven.

"Nonna would be proud," I whisper, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips.

I step onto Ponsonby Road, the fairy lights in shop windows twinkling like earthbound stars. The night air carries a hint of salt from the harbor, mingling with the aroma of nearby restaurants. It's a magical hour, when the day's bustle fades into evening's soft embrace.

" Buona notte , Ponsonby," I say, giving a little wave to my beloved district.

I continue my walk home, a new spring in my step. Tomorrow's another day, another chance to prove myself. To show the world – and Mamma – what Liv Garner is made of.

"Watch out, Ponsonby," I whisper with a grin. "Your favorite baker's just getting started."