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For one beautiful second, you forget the mansion. Then your hands ache when you reach for the bowl, and you remember Regina throwing your basket like it carried disease instead of bread.
You almost sit down.
Almost let shame win.
But rent is still rent, hunger is still hunger, and dough does not knead itself.
So you work.
Cornmeal, flour, butter, eggs, sugar, cinnamon. Your kitchen fills with the smell that has kept you alive through every eviction notice, every insult, every bus ride where people looked at your basket like it took too much space.
At 6:10 a.m., you hear a car outside.
That is impossible.
No cars come up your hill unless someone is lost or collecting debt.
You wipe your hands on your apron and step outside.
A black accessible van is parked near the broken curb.
Alejandro is inside, looking very out of place among the unfinished brick homes, stray dogs, clotheslines, and morning smoke from cheap stoves. Mr. Ellis stands beside the ramp, looking nervous but respectful.
Alejandro sees you and smiles.
“You invited me.”
You stare at him.
“I didn’t mean at sunrise.”
He looks up at the pale sky. “You said I should see where it’s made. This is when it’s made, isn’t it?”
For a second, you want to hide.
The cracked steps. The rusted gate. The walls without paint. The old stove you have to hit twice before it lights properly. You are not ashamed of working, but poverty has corners that feel too intimate to show.
Then you remember Regina’s voice.
Trash.
You step aside.
“Come in.”