My son kicked me out after I sold my shop—he didn’t know I bought the building he lives in

"I'm selling the bakery." Those four words hung in the air between us, heavy with thirty years of flour-dusted memories and pre-dawn risings. My son James stared at me across our family kitchen table, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his lips. I'd chosen Sunday morning to tell him, the only day the bakery was closed, the only day we ever truly rested. "You're... what?" His voice came out clipped, stunned. I placed my palms flat on the table, steadying myself. "I'm selling Bernard's Bakery. The papers are already signed."