You know that feeling when you wake up in the middle of the night and it just HITS you? Twenty years. TWENTY. Slaving away in that damn grocery store bakery, baking cakes for Susie’s sweet sixteen, retirement parties, whatever, while the one thing that actually makes your soul sing—an artisanal shop, just a small one—sits in your head, perfect, fully formed, and utterly out of reach. Because you couldn't risk it, could you? Not with their school, their doctor’s appointments, the fucking bills. Sometimes you just wanna scream till your throat rips out, but who would hear it over the sound of the mixers already starting up at 4am... shit. It’s almost 2:30. Gotta try and sleep.