“So, *this* is the version of you someone actually wanted?”her ex-husband couldnt believe in her happiness.
Laura Whitmore stood before the hallway mirror, adjusting the collar of her crisp white blouse. Behind her, the familiar voice of her husband echoed:
“Those baking shows again, Laura? Honestly, how many times can you watch the same thing? Twenty years of the same routinekitchen, telly, kitchen, telly.”
She didnt turn. On the screen, a French patissier demonstrated the delicate technique of crafting macarons. Laura studied every movement, mentally noting the measurements.
“Theyre not just shows, Edward. Theyre masterclasses,” she replied softly, eyes fixed on the screen.
“Whats the difference?” Edward stalked into the kitchen, where a tray of freshly baked éclairs cooled on the counter. “And youve gone and eaten half of this nonsense. Look at yourself, Laura. You werent like this twenty years ago.”
She knew what he meant. After the children, shed softened around the edges, though not drastically. She was no longer the slender girl hed fallen for at university. Now she was a woman of forty-two, mother to two university students who only came home for holidays.
“The children love my baking,” she said, still not turning.
“The children have grown up, Laura. And youre still stuck in this kitchen.”
Hed said it before. But lately, his dissatisfaction had sharpened, grown more biting. Laura sensed something shifting, though she couldnt pinpoint what.
The answer came a week later.
“Ive met someone,” Edward announced, sitting across from her at the kitchen table. Between them sat a plate of apple cake, untouched.
Laura set down her fork. Her stomach clenched, but her voice was eerily calm.
“I see.”
“Shes younger. Takes care of herself. Works in marketing at the firm.” Edward avoided her eyes. “Laura, we need to talk.”
“Go on.”
“I want to leave. Be with her.”
Laura nodded as if hed mentioned the weather forecast.
“And what about me?”
“Youll keep the house. Ill pay child support until they finish university.” Finally, he looked at her. “Laura, you have to understandI cant do this anymore. Youre not the woman I married. Youve let yourself go. Always in the kitchen with these silly little cakes, watching those shows”
“I dont watch silly shows,” she interrupted quietly.
“What does it matter? Youve become a dull housewife. Charlotteshe has ambition, plans to travel, to”
“And I dont?”
“Be honest with yourself, Laura. When was the last time you read anything besides a recipe? When did we last talk about something other than whats for dinner?”
Laura rose and walked to the window. Children played outside, their laughter drifting through the glass.
“Fine,” she said without turning. “Go.”
Edward seemed to expect tears, hysterics, pleas to stay. Her calmness threw him.
“Laura, I never meant to hurt you”
“You already have.” She turned and, for the first time in the conversation, smiled. “But you know what? Maybe this is for the best.”
A month later, Edward moved out. The children, home for the holidays, took the divorce in stride. Twenty-year-old Thomas even remarked,
“Mum, truthfully, I never understood what kept you two together. Dad was always grumbling, and you you just endured.”
Eighteen-year-old Emily was more emotional:
“Mum, are you going to be all alone now? Wont you be lonely?”
Laura considered it. Lonely? For the first time in years, she could do as she pleased without catering to someone elses discontent. Watch her baking tutorials, experiment with new recipes, read books on patisserie.
The idea struck unexpectedly. As she watched another French pastry tutorial, scribbling notes, it dawned on her: she knew more about baking than many professionals. Twenty years of daily practice, countless tutorials, hundreds of tested recipes. She had the skill, the knowledgeand, most importantly, the passion.
“A bakery,” she said aloud, and the word felt like magic.
Finding the right location took two months. Laura scoured half of London before she found ita small ground-floor space in a quiet neighbourhood, with large windows and its own entrance.
“Its a good spot,” said the landlord, a silver-haired man in his fifties with keen grey eyes. “But no ones ever considered it for a bakery. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Laura replied, already envisioning display cases and tables.
“Im Geoffrey,” he introduced himself. “Geoffrey Hartwell. And you?”
“Laura Whitmore.”
“Pleasure.” He smiled, his eyes warm. “Tell you whatif youre serious about this, I could help with the renovations. I know reliable builders, electricians. Well have it done quickly and properly.”
“Thats very kind, but”
“No buts,” he cut in. “Honestly, I like your idea. The area lacks a proper bakery. Just chain cafés with frozen pastries. This could be something special.”
Laura studied him. No pretence, no hidden motivesjust genuine interest.
“All right,” she said. “Lets try.”
The renovations flew by. Geoffrey not only delivered but offered thoughtful layout suggestions. He often stopped by to check on progress, and gradually, their conversations drifted from business to personal matters.
“Was baking always the dream?” he asked one day, watching her explain to the electrician where to install extra sockets.
“No,” she admitted. “It was just a hobby. I baked for family, friends. But now” She paused, searching for words. “Now I can do what I truly love.”
“Divorce?” Geoffrey ventured gently.
“Yes. My husband thought my baking was a waste of time.” Laura smiled ruefully. “Said I was a frumpy, boring housewife who did nothing but make pies and watch telly.”
“Telly?” Geoffrey looked puzzled. “I couldve sworn you were watching baking shows. Last time I dropped in, you had a French dessert tutorial on your tablet.”
Laura stared at him. In twenty years of marriage, Edward had never once noticed what she watched. This man had seen it at a glance.
“Yes, masterclasses,” she confirmed. “Ive been studying them for years.”
“Solid theoretical foundation, then,” Geoffrey nodded approvingly. “And practical experience?”
“Twenty years of daily practice,” Laura grinned. “Though until now, only my family and neighbours tasted the results.”
“Lucky them,” Geoffrey said sincerely, and something warm unfurled in her chest.
“Lauras Confections” opened three months after the divorce. On the first day, only five customers came. On the second, ten. But within a week, a small queue formed outside. Laura baked cakes, pastries, macaronsrecipes shed perfected over years of study. And with every delighted customer, she knew: shed finally found her place.
Geoffrey visited almost dailyfirst under the guise of checking the equipment, then simply for coffee and to sample new creations. Soon, these visits became the highlight of her day.
“You know,” he said one afternoon, finishing a slice of honey cake, “Ive a proposal.”
“Oh?” Laura wiped her hands on her apron, bracing for business talk.
“Come to the theatre with me.”
Laura froze. The last time shed been was a decade agowith Edward, whod spent the second half on his phone.
“I” She faltered. “Geoffrey, were”
“Were adults,” he said gently. “And I rather think we enjoy each others company. Or am I mistaken?”
She studied him. Geoffrey was a few years older but carried himself with vigour. Tall, trim, with intelligent eyes and a sincere smile. And cruciallyhe saw her not as a “frumpy housewife,” but as a woman of worth.
“Youre not mistaken,” she said quietly.
Their courtship unfolded leisurelytheatre, galleries, dinners. Geoffrey reintroduced her to a world shed nearly forgotten after years of marriage and motherhood. In turn, she shared the wonders of baking, explaining the nuances of desserts, discussing plans to expand her menu.
“Youre remarkable,” he said one evening over coffee and pistachio cake in her flat. “So driven, so talented, so beautiful”
“Geoffrey,” Laura laughed, “dont humour me. Ive seen mirrors.”
“And I see you every day,” he said earnestly. “I see a woman whos found herself and flourished. You glow from within, Laura. Thats what makes you beautiful.”
He proposed a year after the bakery opened. Simply, without fanfareover Sunday breakfast, as they shared pancakes with homemade jam.
“Laura, marry me,” he said, spreading raspberry preserves.
She nearly choked on her tea.
“What?”
“It makes sense,” he smiled. “We love each other. Ive a spacious flat, youve a thriving business. We could build a life.”
“Children?” Laura asked. “
