Candy Bear and the Missing Cookie: A Heartwarming Tale of Honesty and Consequences

Little bear Candy was small, round, and brown, with a white belly and ears round as two donuts. He loved three things above all else in the world: honey, sleep, and pastries.

Especially pastries.

His mother, Mama Bear Flora, made the best pastries in the entire forest. Whenever she pulled a tray from the oven, the aroma spread throughout the house and Candy appeared instantly, eyes gleaming and nose twitching.

— When will it be ready? he would ask.

— Tomorrow, Mother would answer.

— But why tomorrow?

— Because the pastry is for tomorrow’s party.

— Can I have a little bite now?

— No.

— A teeny tiny bit?

— No.

— As small as a thimble?

— Candy.

— Yes?

— No.

One Thursday, Mama Flora made the most beautiful pastry of her life. Three layers: the first with cherries, the second with vanilla cream, and the third covered with fresh strawberries and powdered sugar white as snow. On top she placed a larger strawberry, like a crown.

She placed the pastry on the table, covered it with a glass dome, and said:

— Candy, this pastry is for Friday’s party, when Aunt Susanna and your cousins come over. Don’t you dare touch it. Understood?

— Understood, said Candy.

— Do you promise?

— I promise.

And Mother went shopping.

Candy stared at the pastry.

The pastry stared back at Candy.

Or at least that’s how it seemed to him.

He smelled it. It smelled of cherries and vanilla and strawberries and something sweet he couldn’t describe, but something that made his belly sing.

— I won’t touch it, he said aloud, just to be sure.

He went to his room. He came back after two minutes.

— Still not touching it.

He went outside to play. He came back after five minutes.

— Absolutely not touching it.

He sat in a chair next to the table. The pastry was there, its crown strawberry glowing bright red.

Candy covered his eyes with his paws. He counted to ten.

And then… nobody knows exactly what happened. Some things in a little bear’s life remain a mystery.

What is certain is that when Mother returned, she lifted the glass dome and saw that the pastry was missing. Not all of it. A quarter. Exactly a quarter, cut carefully, as if someone had taken it with great care so no one would notice.

It was noticeable.

— Candy! Come here for a moment!

Candy appeared. He looked very innocent. Perhaps too innocent.

— Yes, Mother?

— Do you know anything about the pastry?

— No, he said. What happened to it?

— A quarter is missing.

— Really?! said Candy with such exaggerated surprise that even the squirrel outside turned her head.

— Someone ate a quarter of the party pastry.

— Someone? But who? This is a great… a great… mystery! Yes! A mystery!

And before Mother could say anything else, Candy declared solemnly:

— Mother, I will solve this mystery. I, Candy, Detective of the Forest, will find the culprit!

Candy put a rain hat on his head (it looked sufficiently detective-like), grabbed a stick to write in the dirt with, and went outside to investigate.

First suspect: Rabbit Hoppy.

— Hoppy! Did you come to my house today?

— Me?! No! Why?

— My mother’s pastry has disappeared. A quarter of it.

— And you think I ate it?

— I’m investigating everyone. Where were you this morning?

— At the carrots! All morning! Ask the squirrel too, she was right next to me!

Candy wrote something with his stick.

— You’re off the list.

— I was never on any list!

— Now you’re off it. Goodbye.

Second suspect: Squirrel Nutkin.

— Nutkin! Did you eat my mother’s pastry? With cherries, vanilla cream, and strawberries. Three layers.

Nutkin blinked from above, from her branch.

— That sounds delicious.

— That’s not an answer!

— No, I didn’t eat it. I stayed in the tree all day. But do you know who might have?

— Who?!

Nutkin looked at him carefully, her fluffy tail swishing gently.

— Someone who really loved pastries with cherries, cream, and strawberries.

Candy fell silent.

— That is… that is anyone! Everyone loves pastries! he said and left quickly.

Third suspect: Hedgehog Spike.

— Spike! Did you eat my mother’s pastry?

— I don’t eat pastries. I eat mushrooms, snails, and forest berries.

— Maybe you liked the pastry.

— Candy, said Spike patiently, I have never entered your house. And I wouldn’t enter without being invited. That’s not how we do things.

Candy bit his lip.

— Right, he said. That’s not how we do things.

— Candy, said Spike more softly. Did you eat the pastry?

— NO! said Candy immediately. I’m the detective! I’m investigating!

— Fine. But if you did eat it, you know what you need to do, don’t you?

Candy didn’t answer. He left.

He came home with his list: Hoppy — NO. Nutkin — NO. Spike — NO.

The list was empty of suspects.

Mother sat at the table and looked at him.

— Well? Who ate the pastry?

Candy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

— No one confessed, he said.

— Hmm. Can I ask you a question, Detective?

— Yes.

— You have powdered sugar on your nose.

Candy froze.

Very slowly, he brought his paw to his nose. He felt something fine and sweet. He looked at his paw.

White powdered sugar. Exactly like on the pastry.

There was a very long silence.

Candy looked at the floor. At the walls. At the ceiling. At the window. At Mother.

— I ate the pastry, he said finally, in such a small voice it was barely heard. A quarter. I went to smell it and… and after that I don’t exactly know what happened. But when I looked, a quarter was eaten and it was very good.

— Candy.

— I know, Mother. I promised not to touch it and I did. And then I went outside to blame someone else — and that’s even worse than eating the pastry itself.

— How do you know it’s worse?

— Spike told me that if you’ve done wrong, you know what you need to do. Confess. Even if it’s hard. Even if you’re ashamed.

— Was it hard?

— Very hard. I kept hoping you wouldn’t find out.

— The powdered sugar on your nose, said Mother.

— Yes, said Candy sadly. I didn’t think about the powdered sugar.

Mother smiled. A small, warm smile.

— Candy, I’m glad you told the truth. Even if it took a while.

— Are you mad?

— I am a little angry that you ate the pastry without permission. But I’m also proud that you confessed. These two things can exist at the same time.

— And the party? With Aunt Susanna and my cousins?

— We’ll make the pastry together. You help me.

— Me?

— You. And this time you won’t eat any of it until Friday.

Candy swallowed hard.

— I promise, he said. And this time I really mean it.

They made the pastry together. Candy put in the cherries, Mother spread the vanilla cream, and together they placed the strawberries on top, one by one.

And Candy didn’t eat any of it. Not Friday morning. Not Friday at lunch.

Friday evening, when Aunt Susanna and his cousins arrived, Mother cut the pastry and gave Candy the first slice.

— You worked the hardest on it.

Candy bit into the slice.

It was even better than the piece he had eaten without permission. Much better.

Maybe because this time he deserved it.

The End.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell the truth. But after you do, you feel light, as if you’ve taken off a heavy backpack from your shoulders. And pastries earned honestly always taste better. 🍰