The astronaut removed her helmet long before mission control said it was safe. That sentence was the first line in my grandmother's favorite novel. She claimed she'd written it. Nobody believed her. She had spent her life baking bread, growing tomatoes, and pretending not to hear compliments. After the funeral, we cleaned out her attic. There were no manuscripts. Just rejection letters. Hundreds of them. Some were polite. Others cruel. "Women don't write convincing science fiction." "Perhaps try romance instead." "Interesting ideas, but commercially impossible." Near the bottom of the final box sat a first edition of the novel. Different author's name. My grandmother's handwritten edits filled every margin. Tucked inside was a contract she'd never signed. A single note accompanied it. "Sometimes feeding your family matters more than keeping your name." The famous author had gone on to win awards. Grandmother had never mentioned him again. We argued about exposing the truth. My uncle wanted justice. My mother wanted peace. I wanted to know whether she'd regretted her choice. The answer was written in the cookbook she'd left me. "A good loaf doesn't care whose hands kneaded the dough." In the end, the truth turned out to be much quieter than she expected.