No ones going to eat your pasties, hissed my mother-in-law. A year later, she saw the queue outside my little caféher own husband standing in it. What nonsense is this?
The sharpness in her voice, though quiet, stung like a slap. Sylvia Whitmoretall, stiff, and impeccably dressedstood in my kitchen doorway like an inspector, arms crossed, lips pinched.
Id just pulled a tray of pasties from the oven. The scent of herbs, melted cheddar, and golden pastry hung in the air. My first test batchspinach and feta. My small, fragile hope.
I wanted to try something I love, Sylvia, I said, dusting flour off my hands.
She stepped inside, eyes scanning the spotless counters, but her expression twisted as if shed walked into a back-alley kitchen.
Love? You lost a perfectly good job as a financial analyst, and now youre messing about with flour like some amateur baker? Matthews already told me everything.
Her words were needles. Lost wasnt quite right. Redundant. The whole department. Recession. But in her mouth, it sounded like failure.
Its a chance to build something, I said, firmer than I expected.
Sylvia picked up a pasty with two fingers, wrinkling her nose. Whats in this? Some sort of *weed*? Proper women bake steak and ale. Not this *hippie* rubbish.
I glanced at Matthew, hovering behind her. He gave me an apologetic smile*Dont argue, just let it go*.
That was always his role. The peacekeeper. Even when the peace cut me open.
Mum, its trendy these days. Gourmet fillings, artisanal baking, he offered weakly.
Gourmet? Sylvia smirked. Listen to me, Katie. Drop this silliness before its too late. No one wants your odd little pasties.
Not a criticism. A verdict. Cold, final.
I looked at my flour-dusted hands, at the golden pasties Id thought were perfect. Something inside me tightenednot hurt, but something fiercer.
I think they *will* sell, I said, louder than I meant to.
Sylvia didnt flinch. She just turned to Matthew, her gaze a silent ultimatum.
Your wifes always been a dreamer. But this is too far. A man needs proper food, not this *garden rubbish* in pastry. Tell her this is a dead end.
Matthew hesitated. He took a bite, chewing mechanically. Its fine. But Mums right, Kate. Its not *serious*. Get a real job.
That hurt more than Sylvias jabs. Because she was a stranger. But he was supposed to be mine. In that moment, he chose her.
Sylvia sighed, almost pitying, and turned to leave. Good. Come along, Matthew. Ill fry you some proper steak at home.
They left. The kitchen smelled of failure. I picked up a pasty, but my throat was too tight to swallow.
I didnt know then that this night was the beginning.
Matthew came back later, quiet. Im sorry, he whispered, sitting beside me on the floor. I saw her looking at you and I just *froze*. Ive spent my whole life afraid of her.
He took my hand. Then I walked her to the car, and she looked so *smug* and I realisedI just betrayed the most important person in my life. For *steak*. And cowardice.
He picked up a pasty and ate it properly this time. This is *good*, Kate. Really good. Well make this work. Ill help. Ill be your delivery man, your accountantanything. Just dont let her win.
That night changed everything.
We scraped together our savings. I perfected five more fillingsbeef and juniper, mushroom and cream, pumpkin and ricotta. Matthew built a simple webpage, took photos that made mouths water.
Our first order came three days later. A dozen pasties. Matthew delivered them across town and came back grinning. They *loved* them. Said theyll order for their office party!
But Sylvia wasnt done. She called daily. Has your little *hobby* found a job yet? No? I knew it. Marjories son needs a secretaryIll get you in.
Shes busy, Mum, Matthew said, jaw tight.
Busy? Playing with flour isnt a *business*.
She spread rumours. Told neighbours I was starving Matthew. Convinced our first café buyer to drop us, whispering about filthy kitchens.
Then came the festival. Our big chance. We rented a stall, poured everything into it.
An hour before opening, Sylvia arrived with two women in uniforms. Health inspectors. Weve had a complaint. *Food poisoning* from your pasties.
My stomach dropped. We hadnt even *opened* yet.
Then I saw Sylvias smirk.
So I turned to the crowd already gathering. This is a *false* complaint, I said loudly. From *her*my mother-in-law, whos tried to ruin this from the start.
Matthew started filming. The inspectors, flustered, did a rushed check. No violations, they muttered, shooting Sylvia a glare.
The crowd *cheered*. By noon, we had a queue. By evening, wed sold out.
A year later, we opened *Pasty & Co.* in the city centre. Busy, thriving.
One Saturday, I saw Sylvia across the street. Thin, older. Staring at the queue, at the happy customers. Not hatred in her eyesjust emptiness. Like she still couldnt believe it.
Then I spotted Matthews dad, *in* the queue. Smiling at me.
Sylvia turned and walked away.
Id already forgiven her. Her poison had fuelled us. The best revenge wasnt fighting backit was building something *unbreakable*.
Seven years on, we sat in our garden, our daughter laughing with her grandad. Three cafés now. A good life.
Matthew told me later: Sylvia kept a folder. Newspaper clippings. Every article about us.
Why? I asked.
She said, I want to understand where I went wrong.
Then he showed me her old sketchbook. Shed wanted to be a designer. Her parents forced her into accounting. Shed hated every day.
Thats when I understood. She wasnt angry at *me*. She was angry at the woman shed never been brave enough to become.
Her wordsNo one will want your pastieswerent for me. They were for *herself*.
And in the end, shed helped us more than shed ever know.
