Our little suburban village was waking up before the crack of dawn. Miller’s Bakery had been handed down two generations, and today, I was being prepped for the next handoff.

My first batch of doughnuts came out of the fryer at 5:47 a.m.

“Perfect timing,” said Dad, lifting the golden rings onto a cooling rack. “You’re 14, which means you’re officially my apprentice.”

“Which means I officially get paid?” I exclaimed as clearly and slowly as possible.

Dad looked at me like I was trying way too hard.

“Which means you officially get to learn why people pay us.”

“Sounds like a no.”

Dad grinned and handed me a box. “A dozen glazed doughnuts.”

I counted them out and confirmed 12.

“Thirteen,” Dad corrected as he handed me a 13th doughnut in a separate little bag.

“You said a dozen, that’s 12.”

“Around here, that means 13.”

“Okay, a baker’s dozen. I get it.”

“But do you know why?”

In that moment I knew Dad was about to educate me, no matter what my answer. “Dad, I’m still a bit tired. It’s not even six in the morning.”

“Excellent. Then your brain should be fresh.”

Dad leaned against the counter.

“In medieval England, bakers could get into serious trouble for selling underweight bread. There were laws about how much a loaf was supposed to weigh. So, to protect themselves, some bakers started giving customers 13 loaves instead of 12.”

“Medieval times, like when people carried candles around at night. You do know we click an app to turn on our LED colored lighting sequence, right?”

“Okay… wait, what?” Dad’s voice quivered with confusion.

“Nothing, I get it. History repeats itself.”

Dad chuckled. “One day, somebody’s going to ask you why it’s called a baker’s dozen. What are you going to tell them?”

“That they get 13 for the price of 12.”

“And when they ask why?”

“Because we’re… terrible at math?”

The bell above the front door jingled.

“Morning, Frank!” Dad called.

An older gentleman in an old high school letterman jacket stepped inside.

“Morning, fellas. Got any of those cinnamon twists?”

“Fresh out of the fryer. How’s Margaret doing?”

“Better. Doctor says another couple weeks, and she’ll be walking without that brace.”

“Tell her we’re thinking about her.”

Dad slipped two extra cinnamon twists into Frank’s bag.

“One for you and one for Margaret.”

Frank smiled. “Keep doing that, I’m gonna have to start bringing you gifts.”

“Just bring yourself back next week.”

After Frank left, Dad continued his lecture.

“There’s another baker’s dozen story. Centuries ago, bakers often supplied street vendors with 13 loaves for the price of 12. The vendor could sell the extra loaf and make a little profit.”

“Just what I needed. Two history lessons before breakfast. Look, Dad. Times have changed. People just want good doughnuts at a decent price.”

“You’re right.”

Startled, I had to be sure what I heard. “I am?”

“Absolutely. But that’s only part of the business.”

A young woman hurried through the door, phone pressed against her ear.

“Can I get a large coffee and two blueberry muffins? I’m running late.”

“Of course,” Dad said. “Ethan, would you take care of her?” I moved quickly, filling the cup and bagging the muffins.

“Seven eighty-five,” I said.

She tapped her phone against the reader, grabbed the cup and bag, and rushed out.

“See, Dad. Fast. Accurate. Easy. That’s what people want.”

“Some of the time.”

“Well, Dad, for those times, we could buy an AI robot to work the counter. They’ll cost less than hiring a part-time person for a year. They could take orders, answer questions, remember everything, and never call in sick.”

Dad wiped down the counter. “Sounds impressive.”

“Yeah. And we already have an online business. People can order without even talking to us. We could automate practically everything.”

“You’re probably right.”

“So why don’t we?”

Dad looked out the picture window at our quaint village. “Because there are hundreds of places where people can buy a doughnut. Grocery stores. Gas stations. Coffee shops. Delivery apps. Some of them are cheaper than we are.”

“Exactly, efficiency counts.”

“Son, there is a time for it. But when everybody can sell the same thing, people need a reason to choose you. To choose here. To choose Miller’s Bakery.”

“Our doughnuts taste better.”

“Maybe, today. But what happens when someone improves their recipe?”

“We improve ours.”

“And then they improve theirs.”

“Then we improve ours again.”

Dad smiled. “A game that never ends.”

The bell jingled again.

Mrs. Peterson came in carrying a canvas shopping bag. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Morning, Helen,” Dad said. “The usual?”

“You remembered?”

“Six plain cake doughnuts and six chocolate frosted. Unless your grandchildren have changed their minds.”

“They haven’t changed their minds about anything except cleaning their rooms.”

Dad laughed and nodded for me to fill the box, as he slipped into the back room.

Mrs. Peterson glanced at me and asked, “Your first official day?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Your father must be proud.”

“He’ll be prouder when I learn how to work the cash register without getting a history lesson.”

She laughed.

Dad came back into the front room with a small bag and slipped a 13th doughnut into it. “One for the driver.”

Mrs. Peterson smiled. “That’s why I come here.”

Dad winked at me as she left the bakery.

“Okay, but seriously, Dad. We could let a robot handle the counter—or even the baking—and spend our time making more doughnuts.”

Dad looked like the wheels in his head were cranking, as he pulled out a rag and wiped down the counters. “Son, let me ask you something. What’s the point of making more doughnuts?”

“To sell more.”

“And the point of selling more?”

“Make more money.”

“And the point of making more money?”

I closed my eyes for a moment and wondered if we were going to continue Dad’s version of the 7 whys. Then I answered, “To have a better life.”

Dad nodded.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

He set the rag aside.

“Technology can make things faster. It can make things cheaper. It can even make things easier. And there’s nothing wrong with any of that. But if we keep removing people from everything we do, eventually we remove the very thing that makes life worth living.”

I wondered if people were really what made life worth living.

Dad continued, “Connections. Friendships. Knowing somebody cares whether you show up tomorrow.”

Dad gestured toward the areas of the bakery where each customer had stood while ordering.

“Frank comes because somebody remembers Margaret. Mrs. Peterson comes because we remember her grandchildren.”

“But a robot could remember all that.”

“It could remember the data,” Dad said. “But remembering information isn’t the same as showing empathy and caring about a person.”

“That’s true.”

“Son, convenience is wonderful. But if we trade away every human connection for convenience, we might end up making life lonelier instead of better.”

“That’s a pretty dark thought for a bakery.”

Dad smiled. “Then let’s brighten it up.” He opened a fresh box and began placing doughnuts inside.

I grabbed a box and did the same.

“Remember those medieval bakers, son?”

“How could I forget?”

“They gave 13 because they were afraid of being punished for selling too little. And those street vendors? The extra loaf helped them earn a living.”

“Neither are important today.”

“You’re right, we could give everyone 12 today. But when someone drives across town, fights traffic, finds a parking space, and walks through our door instead of ordering from somebody else, they’ve given us something valuable.”

“Money.”

“Their time. They’ve given us their time. They chose to spend it with us.”

“So we give them a baker’s dozen?”

“We give them a little thank-you for being the person who went out of their way.”

“So the 13th doughnut isn’t really about getting more, but giving more.”

Dad smiled. “Now you’re beginning to understand.”

The bell above the door jingled.

A man in a business suit stepped inside, looking distracted. “Morning. Can I get a dozen assorted? Whatever’s fresh.”

“Absolutely.” I grabbed the mixed box that I had just finished packing. Then I placed a 13th doughnut into the little bag and placed both items on the counter. “That’s a dozen mixed doughnuts to go, and one special doughnut for the guy who went out of his way to pick them up.”

The man laughed. “Well, that’s the best deal I’ve had all week.”

He paid, thanked me, and headed for the door. But just before leaving, he turned around.

“You know, I usually order from one of those delivery apps. First time I’ve been in here.”

“Thanks for sharing. We’re glad you came.”

The man smiled and closed the door behind him.

I turned to Dad and said, “Okay. I get it.”

“Get what?”

“A robot could have sold him 12 doughnuts.”

“And?”

I smiled. “But I got to give him the 13th.”

Dad put a hand on my shoulder.

“Welcome to the family business.”

© 2026 CJ Powers