Confrontation at the Bakery
“Who are you?” My voice cracked like the freezer door when I stepped toward the woman near the bakery display.
She turned, the soft hum of the ovens framing her face. A calm smile brushed her lips, untouched by the storm I felt.
“Maya, I’m Elise,” she said, voice steady, as if introducing herself at a tea party, not to a woman whose world just tilted.
“Elise? What do you want?” My hands clenched the cart handle, nails digging into the plastic.
She lifted a hand, palm open, as if offering something fragile. “I’m a therapist. Daniel hired me to help you with the postpartum depression you’ve been battling.”
The words landed heavy. Postpartum depression—my secret grief that I’d hidden even from myself. The bakery’s scent of fresh bread mingled with the metallic taste of panic.
“Why are you here now?” My throat felt raw, each syllable a scrape against a bruise.
Elise’s eyes softened, not pity but genuine concern. “I came because Leo mentioned you, and I thought you should know someone is watching, caring.”
Leo’s innocent voice echoed in my mind, “That’s the lady who plays in your bedroom when you’re at work.” The absurdity of his words now felt like a code.
I swallowed, trying to steady the tremor. “What does ‘plays’ even mean?”
She hesitated, then let a sigh escape. “He means ‘visits,’ Maya. He’s been seeing me.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a question without answer.
“Seeing you? For what?” I asked, voice barely above the buzz of the checkout scanner.
Elise’s gaze never wavered. “For therapy. To help you through the darkest nights.”
My mind raced—therapy, secrets, Daniel’s hidden life. The line of the checkout stretched like a tightrope beneath me.
“Where do we go from here?” I whispered, more to myself than to her.
She stepped forward, the bakery’s warm light haloing her silhouette. “Come with me. We can talk somewhere quieter.”
