THE CINNAMON ROLL HEIST

This morning, the cinnamon rolls never had a chance. The writer had baked what they called a perfect pan, warm, spiraled, gooey, the kind of tray that makes a kitchen feel like a small victory. The rolls were ready. The table was ready. The moment was set. Then came the son. "My son ate the middles out of every cinnamon roll before I got to the table this morning." Not the tops. Not the edges. Not even a whole roll, taken in a rush. He made a much more targeted choice. "He didn't take one... he surgically removed the gooey centers from just about ALL of them, leaving behind sad, hollow bread rings." By the time the writer arrived, the scene had already changed from breakfast to aftermath. Where there should have been plump, intact cinnamon rolls, there were only shells, the soft outer spirals left standing, each one missing the best part. A perfect pan had been transformed into a tray of empty circles. The writer's account is simple, but the damage is clear: the centers were gone, the rolls were hollow, and the emotional toll was immediate. "I'm still trying to recover emotionally." That's the story. A fresh pan of cinnamon rolls. A son with a very specific mission. And a breakfast table full of sad, hollow bread rings before the first bite could even be taken.