"You know you have to make a choice. Your parent's dream or yours."
For a good portion of her life, Bentley's mind was made up. She was going to follow in her parent's footsteps and continue the family business, but something changed along the way...
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July 11th, 1981
Houston, Texas
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I closed and locked the bakery door with a sigh, drained from the day's work. I had pushed myself to finish all the desserts for the banquet on Monday so I would have time to get dressed after dropping them off. Regrettably, I had told Angel not to stop by today so I would have no distractions. So now I had nothing to put off having to tell my parents that I would be busy for most of Monday, the day we reopen after being closed on Sundays.
I begrudgingly hopped into my blue Jeep Cherokee Chief and turned the key in the ignition. While the truck hummed to life, I leaned back into the driver's seat. The longer I sat there, the more I didn't want to move. Wanting reprieve, I leaned over to turn the radio dial for some music.
"Heeelloo Houston, this is 104.1 KRBE, Houston's #1 Hit Music Station," boasted the radio host. "It's Saturday night, and the weekend's just getting started for fans of The Jacksons, formerly known as The Jackson 5, because they are in town for one night only! Their show at The Summit has been sold out since it was announced in May. In honor of that, enjoy some of the lead singer Michael Jackson's music from his latest award-winning album, Off The Wall."
Soon, the truck's space was filled with beginning vocal scats of the song Workin' Day and Night, which describes my life perfectly. Riding on the song's energy, I finally pulled out of my spot and began the trek back home.
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Even though the song ended 10 minutes ago, the energetic but woeful lyrics stuck in my head. Leaving me humming as I turned my truck off and locked the door.
I looked up at my childhood home. I knew the dark, paneled exterior walls, the multi-paned windows that kaleidoscope the rays of sunshine through them, and the layered brick that ranged from the deep maroons to the once bright reds would put most at ease. To the untrained eye, the Tudor style would bring a sense of belonging, but I knew better. Because through those ever-so-welcoming archways of stone were the clandestine events of my childhood. I have to relive it every day.
Once I reached the entryway, the obscure glass panes restricted my view, but I could see that the lights were on. With a sharp breath, I opened the front door with my keys.
A cold gust of wind greeted me as I entered my house. With it, I smelled the remains of dinner and the vanilla bean-scented candles my mom has always used. I beelined across the foyer toward the hallway that connected the living room and kitchen to the rest of the house.
Unfortunately, whoever sat in the living room saw me trying to go up the stairs, which stopped me as soon as I hit the first step.
"What happened to 'hello,' 'goodnight,' 'how was your day'?" The voice tutted as I heard the sofa creak. I didn't turn around until the padding of footsteps stopped behind me.
