*”No one will eat your pasties,”* hissed my mother-in-law. A year later, she saw the queue outside my restaurantwhere her own husband stood in line. *”What nonsense is this?”*
The quiet venom in Rosalinds voice stung like a slap. She loomed in my kitchen doorway like an inspector, arms crossed, lips pursed. I’d just pulled a tray from the ovengolden pastry, melted cheese, and spinach filling. My first test batch. My tiny hope.
*”I wanted to try something I love,”* I said.
She stepped in, her gaze skimming the spotless counters, her face twisted as if shed walked into a den of depravity. *”Love? You quit a respectable job as a financial analyst to play with flour? Martin told me everything.”*
Her words were needles. *”Quit”* wasnt quite right*laid off*, the whole department, thanks to the recession. But from her lips, it sounded like failure etched in stone.
*”This is my chance to start something new,”* I said, firmer than Id expected.
Rosalind plucked a pasty from the tray like it was roadkill, sniffed. *”Whats this? Weeds? Normal women make steak and kidney pies.”*
I glanced at Martin, hovering behind her. He offered a sheepish smile and a *dont argue* shrughis usual role. The peacekeeper, smoothing edges even when those edges cut me.
*”Mum, its trendy,”* he tried. *”Artisanal fillings, gourmet flavours.”*
*”Gourmet?”* She smirked. *”Emily, listen to an old woman. Give up this silliness. No one wants your odd little pasties.”*
Not a suggestion. A decree.
I looked at my flour-dusted hands, at the pasties I swore were perfect. Something coiled inside menot hurt. Something hotter. *”I think they will,”* I said, louder than intended.
Rosalind didnt blink. She just shot Martin a look that said *handle this*.
*”Your wifes always been a dreamer,”* she told him. *”But this is too far. A man needs proper food, not herbs in pastry. Tell her this is madness.”*
Martin fidgeted. He took a bite, chewed blankly. *”Its fine. But Mums right, Em. Its not serious. Just find a proper job.”*
That hurt more than her barbs. Because she was a stranger. He wasnt. Or hadnt been. In that moment, he chose her.
*”Good. Youve come to your senses,”* Rosalind said, almost pitying. *”Come, Martin. Ill fry you real food at home.”*
They left. The kitchen reeked of failure. I lifted a pastycouldnt swallow. The lump in my throat won.
I didnt know then that night was the start.
Martin returned later, sat beside me on the floor. *”Im an idiot,”* he whispered. *”A coward. I saw her facehow she looked at youand I froze. I always do. Easier to agree than fight her.”* He took my hand. *”Then I walked her to the car, watched her drive off and realised Id betrayed the person who matters most. Over *pies*.”*
He ate another pastyproperly this time. *”This is incredible. Seriously. Unusual, but brilliant. Em, were doing this. You bake. Ill handle the rest. Ill be your deliveryman, accountant, whatever. Just dont let her win.”*
We became a team. Invested our savings. I crafted five new fillingsslow-cooked beef with juniper, wild mushrooms in cream sauce, pumpkin and ricotta. Martin built a social media page, photographed them till they glowed.
Our first order came in three days. Then Rosalind struck.
She *”accidentally”* told our neighbour, *”Poor Martins wasting away. Emilys too busy selling her odd pies to feed him.”*
She sabotaged our deal with a local café. *”A relative warned us you work in filth,”* the owner lied.
We knew who.
At the city food festivalour big breakshe arrived with health inspectors. *”Complaint of food poisoning,”* they said. *”Your meat pasties hospitalised a family yesterday.”*
*”Yesterday?”* I laughed. *”We hadnt even opened!”*
I livestreamed it. Called her out. The crowd buzzed. Rosalind paled.
*”Taste one,”* I challenged the inspectors. *”Then decide.”*
They did. Found no violations. The queue that formed afterward? Fifty deep. By evening, wed sold out.
A year later, *”Pasty & Co.”* was born. A cosy café, open kitchen, Martin managing. Rosalind never visited. But her husband didstood in line, bought pasties, beamed at me.
From across the street, Rosalind watched. Not hatred in her eyesjust hollow shock.
Years later, I understood. Her rage wasnt about me. It was about the sketches in her youthdesigns her parents called *”frivolous.”* The life shed wanted, buried.
*”No one will want your pasties,”* shed said.
But she was wrong. And the woman whod tried to break us? She became the push we needed to fly.
