Chapter 4
Consuelo Dominguez
Morning light spills through the wide windows of Panadería La Estrella, draping everything in a honeyed glow—like a grandmother’s abrazo after Sunday mass. The air hums with the steady burr of the coffee grinder, the sizzle of dough crisping to golden perfection, and the gentle murmur of early customers swapping gossip between sips of café. The scent of fresh bread, sugar, and dark Cuban coffee wraps around me, thick and familiar—comfort baked into the walls.
I sink into my usual corner, dropping my worn leather purse at my feet with a satisfying thunk. The chalkboard menu—scribbled in looping, rainbow-colored script—boasts café con leche, pastelitos de guayaba, and all the Cuban staples that make this place feel like home. Smudged remnants of erased words ghost the board, proof that the bakery—like life—never stops evolving.
At the counter, a young barista froths milk, her laughter bright and fizzy, bubbling into the panadería’s rhythm. I take a sip of my coffee, steam curling into the soft morning light. It’s more than warmth, more than caffeine. It’s memory, tethered to a thousand mornings spent with Carlos.
“Choco-Abue_714,” he’d teased when he caught me navigating my laptop. “What’s next? You gonna livestream the baking process, Abuela?”
I smirk at the thought and flip open my laptop. My desktop is a glorious mess of family photos—snapshots of birthdays, beach trips, and Sunday dinners, each one a thread in our story.
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“Otra vez on the internet, Consuelo?”
Pedro’s voice—warm, teasing—cuts through the hum of the bakery. He leans against the counter, sipping his cortadito like it holds the secrets of the universe. He’s been part of this panadería’s rhythm as long as I have.
I wave him off. “The internet needs wisdom too, Pedro.”
He chuckles. “If it listens, let me know.”
I click into my forum: Small Café Stories: Vent or Celebrate!
I pause, rereading. The words stir something deep—a mix of pride and longing.
Carlos’s arm, inked with constellations, flickers in my memory.
he’d grin, tapping the stars,
The bakery’s warmth settles around me, alive, and for a heartbeat, I swear I hear his voice—mischievous, affectionate, real.
A notification pings.
CupcakeChronicles:Your stories are like pastelitos—sweet and full of surprises. Tell me more about Carlito. He sounds amazing!
The word presses against my ribs. Carlito wasn’t just my grandson. He was proof that love outlives us, that family isn’t just blood—it’s stories, lessons passed down with flour-dusted hands.
I type before doubt creeps in.
Carlito isn’t just my grandson; he’s our history. Our triumphs shine in his smile.
As I hit “post,” the bakery door swings open, and a gust of crisp morning air rushes in, carrying laughter, fresh faces, and the scent of something waiting to be created. I close my laptop, my fingers lingering on its edges before reaching for my coffee.
Carlito’s smile flashes in my mind—a promise, a tether, a bridge. The forum pings again, but I let it wait. The sun climbs higher, stretching across the sky. I breathe in the morning, ready to live out another day.