“Where’re Max and Dad?” I ask my mom as I pad over to the table. Max and I have been off school for Passover break since two days ago and my father has taken the week off work for the holiday, but the house has a hushed, empty feeling to it.

“I needed a little peace and quiet,” my mom says, taking a thick white root-looking stick out of the fridge. “Dad took Max to run some last-minute errands so I can just motor through what I need to do still for tonight.”

I nod. I know it’s a lot of work to get everything ready for the ritual seder meals. “I’ll help when I finish breakfast,” I say, pouring some Passover “cereal” into a plastic bowl as a sinus-clearing smell overtakes my senses.

“Mom, what is that?” I ask, after trying to take a spoonful of cereal without breathing in.

“Horseradish for tonight,” my mom says, vigorously running its edge back and forth over a grater. Bleurgh, the smell of the bitter herb is sharp! I put my spoon down and push away my bowl.

“Oh good, you’re done,” my mom says. “Can you peel these eggs for me?” Like bitter herbs, an egg is one of the symbols on the seder plate, and my family serves one whole boiled egg in a small dish of salt water to everyone at the seder.

“Uh, okay,” I say. When I lift the tea towel from the bowl my mother points to, I am met by the assault of fart smell. I make a face my mother can’t see. Then I hold my breath, pick up an egg, crack it against the plastic-covered counter, and gingerly start peeling.

“Milla! Get a newspaper or paper towel,” my mother says when she glances over at my progress. I look at the pile of shells on the counter.

“Oh, good idea,” I say. I tear a piece of paper towel and try to scrape the shells onto it. They fall on the floor.

“Millaaaaaa!” my mom says.

“Sorry,” I say, wincing. I tear another piece of towel and try to scoop up the shells with it.

“Milla Ruth, where’s your common sense?!” my mom says with exasperation. “Broom, dustpan.”

I tell myself she’s on a short fuse because of all the work to get ready for the holiday and just get the broom without saying anything. Afterward, I put a fresh paper towel down on the counter and gently tap another egg against the bowl. I work slowly, bits of shell sticking to my fingers, and try to breathe through my mouth as the stinky egg stench competes with the eye-watering smell of the horseradish.

“Can I turn on the radio, Mom?” I ask after a few minutes. “It’s a little quiet.”

“Please, no, Milla. I already have a headache.” She blows at the strand of hair over her eyes.

“Okay,” I say glumly, and we continue in silence except for the hum of the refrigerator. Passover is a holiday people usually spend with grandparents, cousins, uncles, and aunts—guests galore at the seders. Since I can remember, each year we’ve alternated between having Pesach with my mom’s side of the family and my dad’s, but since everyone is coming here for my bat mitzvah in six weeks, this year it’s just us and Aunty Steph. Well, and Shmuel Yosef. And one special guest I invited for tomorrow night. But still. Honey sent me a picture of their dining room table all ready for the seder tonight—it’s set for thirty!