The Same Cake

On Saturday morning, I go to the bakery with my grandmother Greta. There is a long queue, but we do not mind. We are happy to wait.

There is fresh bread on the shelf. There is yellow butter and white cheese. There is a cake with cream on top. Everything smells delicious.

Greta does not buy the cake. She does not buy the bread. She buys one small carrot cake, every Saturday, the same one.

“Why always the carrot cake?” I ask.

She smiles. “Your grandfather loved it,” she says. “Now I love it too.”