Maybe I Will Have Cake

Today, I signed the closing documents for the sale of the property that houses our gas station.

One of the last remaining pieces of Tatsuda’s Supermarket, Inc.

And the last bit of business that was built from the ground up by my dad.

That part matters.

Even if I’m being honest about the rest.

Because the truth is—I never really loved that gas station.

I remember my dad building it when I was a little girl.

I remember it being behind schedule.

I remember the tension in the adults around me.

And then, finally, the relief when it opened—

and the quiet, almost disbelieving phrase I kept hearing:

“Gas at last.”

Which, of course, became its name.

I worked there as a teenager, covering lunch breaks for the attendants.

It was never my favorite job.

And in the years since, it’s been bookkeeping, compliance, testing—

important work, necessary work—

but not the kind that lights me up.

So the sale of the property is, in many ways, a relief.

A real one.

I honestly didn’t think it would happen for another few years.

And I’m excited for the new owners—for their vision, their energy, what they’ll build there next.

But it’s also bittersweet.

Because this isn’t just a piece of property.

It’s part of my family’s legacy.

Part of my dad’s life.

Part of the world he built—one decision, one risk, one long, delayed opening at a time.

And now it’s no longer ours.

There are some conflicting emotions in that.

There always are when something ends that mattered—

even if it didn’t always fit.

But if I’m really honest?

What I feel most is something else.

Relief.

Gratitude.

And, unexpectedly—

the urge to celebrate.

Because letting go of something that no longer belongs to you—

even when it was a part of something special,

is its own kind of milestone.

And today,

I think this one is worth honoring.

Maybe I will have cake.