I wanted to buy him Jordans. Wanted to buy him all the things that would make him fit in. But I could barely keep food in the fridge.
“Alright, boys, let’s load up,” I said, pushing the guilt down.
We packed the Uber to capacity—me in the front, the boys in the back with trays balanced on their laps. The driver looked skeptical but didn’t complain when I tipped him an extra twenty.
The farmers market was already bustling by the time we arrived at 7:30. Vendors were setting up tents, testing sound systems, arranging displays. The band was doing a sound check in the center square.
I’d rented a small vendor space near the entrance—prime real estate that had cost me $75 I couldn’t afford. But if this worked, it would be worth it.
“Okay, boys, let’s set up.”
Nigel jumped right in, helping me unfold the table and drape it with the burgundy tablecloth I’d bought from the dollar store. Yusef moved slower, but he helped arrange the trays, making sure each roll was perfectly positioned.
“These look so good, Ms. Z,” Nigel said, staring at the display. “Can I have one?”
“After we sell some, I’ll give you both one. Deal?”
“Deal!”
Yusef just nodded.
I stepped back to look at the setup. Four dozen red velvet Zinnamon rolls. Two dozen peach cobbler. Three dozen bourbon pecan—my test batch to see if people would pay premium for them.
Hand-written signs with prices: $8 for one, $20 for three, $75 for a dozen.
My hands were shaking. This was it. This was my shot to prove Sweet Zin could be a real business. That I could build something for us. Something sustainable. Something that didn’t require me to hide and sneak and scrape by.
“You nervous?” Nigel asked, noticing my fidgeting.
“A little.”
“Don’t be. These are fire. People gonna love them.”
He was right.
Within thirty minutes, I had a line. People who’d followed me on Instagram showed up first, excited to finally try the rolls they’d been seeing all week. Then word of mouth took over. Customers walking by would stop, drawn in by the smell of cinnamon and butter and vanilla.
“Oh my God, these are incredible!”
“Do you cater? I need these for my daughter’s birthday party.”
“Can I order a dozen for next weekend?”
“Are you on DoorDash? Uber Eats?”
I wrote down names and numbers as fast as I could, Nigel handling money while Yusef carefully boxed up orders. By 10 AM, I’d sold out of the red velvet rolls. By 11, the peach cobbler was gone.
All I had left were the bourbon pecan—the expensive ones—and people were still asking for more.
“Ms. Z, we did it!” Nigel was grinning, counting the cash in the lockbox. “You made bank!”
I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe this was actually working.
For the first time in weeks—maybe months—I felt something like hope.
I was boxingup the last bourbon pecan roll when I felt it. That prickling sensation at the back of my neck. The feeling of being watched.
I looked up and froze.
