When I wake up the next morning, the storm is gone and the sun is shining. I decide to put the bad feelings from last night aside. It’s a new day, the first official day of Passover, and I can have matzah and butter for breakfast. I leap out of bed and pad downstairs, where my mother is carrying the dirty dessert plates from the seder into the kitchen.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“I’ll help you clean up,” I say.

“You can have breakfast first,” she says.

“No, I want to help,” I insist, thinking of Miriam and Honey and Mrs. Wine. I carefully lift the Elijah’s cup from the table and walk toward the kitchen. My bare foot steps on something hard, and I stumble. “Ow!” I cry, picking a piece of Lego out of the ball of my foot and losing my balance. The Elijah’s cup slides out of my hand and sails through the kitchen door.

There is a crash, and then the sound of hundreds of glass shards scattering across the tile floor, mimicking the sound of the rain pelting outside last night. Then there is an absence of sound as my mother and I stare at each other in horror.

Aunty Steph rushes down the stairs, calling, “What just happened?” She stops when she sees. Max, who must have still been sleeping and didn’t go to shul with my dad, follows behind her.

“Now Eliyahu will never visit us!” Max cries.

“I’m sorry,” I say in a small voice.

“Okay, show’s over. Everybody out. I need to clean up,” my mother says tightly.

“Geez, Lori, do you always have to be such a martyr?” Aunty Steph says, and points to my mom’s bare feet and then to her own rubber slides. “Let me clean up.” She crunches over the glass to get to the broom.

I go to the door and grab my sneakers. “I’ll help too,” I say, tugging a shoe over my heel.

“You’ve helped enough, Milla,” my mother says. “Just get out of here. Everyone. Just get OUT!”

Max turns with a yelp and runs up the stairs. I stand frozen in place.

“Oh, Lori,” Aunty Steph says with disgust. “Honestly.”

I look down at my shoes. I am standing by the door. A rage I have been trying to ignore that has been hovering since yesterday—or maybe a lot longer than that—rises up through my belly, fills my throat, and feels like it is coming out of my eyes. I’m so angry I suddenly can’t see.

“You know what, fine,” I shout. “I will get out. God forbid I should drag you down anymore!” Before I even know what I’m doing, I’ve opened the front door with trembling hands. “BYE!” I scream, and slam the door shut behind me.

I’ve marched down the driveway before I realize that I’ve left the house in my pajamas. Who cares? No way am I going back there.