“Hi,” I say. Miriam takes a spoonful of pudding. The others keep singing, their backs to me. I feel like I am knocking on their heavy front door.

“Hi!” I shout as loud as I can.

“OH, HI, MILLA!” Honey says, turning around. Ezra glances over his shoulder and nods in greeting.

“Can I help?” I offer.

“WHAT?” Honey says.

“CAN I HELP?” I shout.

“SURE!” she says.

But as I try to move in from the doorway and squeeze myself into the kitchen, Miriam blocks my way.

“WHY AREN’T YOU HELPING AT YOUR OWN HOUSE, MILLA?”

I start in surprise. She’s so rude, that Miriam! Just when I thought she was getting better. “Well—I did,” I say. I think about my mother standing in our kitchen now by herself. The hum of the refrigerator. But that’s what she said she wanted—peace and quiet! Then I wonder why when I am at the Wines’, chipping in is fun, even if that happens to be peeling a five-pound bag of potatoes—or squeezing into a stinky kitchen to make fish balls. It doesn’t feel like I am really even helping, more just that I am a part of something.

Honey hip-checks Miriam to get her to move over. “Ima!” Miriam cries, tattling.

Mrs. Wine stops singing and turns around.

“Milla, sweetie!” she shouts, giving me a smile as her fingers still work the fish. “I’m not kicking you out, but I’m kicking you out. We’re fine here. Go home, and tell your mother she shouldn’t make gefilte fish. I’ll send some over right before the seder so she doesn’t even have to worry about where to put it!”

Miriam lolls against the doorjamb and licks her spoon, a smug look on her face. “SEE, I TOLD YOU TO GO HOME TO YOUR OWN FAMILY.” Everyone else’s backs are to me, and they don’t hear what she says. I gulp and try to breathe through the smell and heat of the kitchen. I hate Miriam.

“Okay, thanks, I’ll tell her!” I call to Mrs. Wine’s back.

“A Chag Kasher v’Sameach,” she calls over her shoulder, wishing me a happy and kosher holiday.

“With shalom and re’us!”—peace and friendship—Honey’s bubbie adds without turning around.

“AMEN!” says Mrs. Wine.

“Thanks,” I say. “Um, so I guess I’ll go home now.” And when no one turns around again, I leave.

When I get back home, Aunty Steph is sitting on a stool by the island, staring at a Styrofoam hot cup in front of her. A fresh box of chamomile tea is beside it. She looks really upset.

“What’s wrong?” I say. “Is it all the plastic and disposable stuff? Mom says it’s only for dairy, that she can’t deal otherwise, or buy two new sets of dishes.”

Aunty Steph holds her arms out to me to give me a hug. I am enveloped in the end of the lavender smell and the beginning of very strong body odor.