“Because Gabriel believed that our bakeries were better off as allies, rather than enemies. Because for a while, I believed that, too, and she blamed him for it.” Mom bites down on her lower lip to hold back the pain from her memories. “One day, your father and I decided to bake the Salt and Sugar cake as a symbolic gesture. We were foolish. But Mother and Seu Romário caught us. They didn’t understand what we were trying to do. Mother wanted him far away from me. The Molinas called him a traitor. So we left Olinda. We got married without her blessing.”

The whole truth about our families’ feud begins to wrap tightly around me.

Suffocating.

I look up at the ceiling, and all the fixtures are spinning, spinning...

“This isn’t the grandma I knew...”

“I know it’s hard to hear that the person you love the most has flaws, but honestly—Lari, it doesn’t mean she didn’t love you, and it doesn’t mean you should stop loving her.”

I don’t know what hurts more. That Grandma hated Dad. Or that Mom thinks I would have rejected him had I known he was Seu Romário’s godson. It all turns into one big, ugly ball of pain that sucks all the oxygen out of the room.

Clumsily, I climb over the back counter, knocking over some utensils, until I manage to swing the window wide open. I stay perched on the windowsill for a while, gulping the night’s cold breeze that blows in.

“Lari, talk to me.”

I turn to look at her. “What happened when you got pregnant? When she heard that you were going to have a kid with the man she saw as a Molina? Did she hate me, too?”

Mom looks taken aback. “Lari, no. Your grandmother loved you.”

“I don’t see how.” I look away. “She hated Dad. She must have hated what I represented, too!”

“She fell in love with you immediately. Never doubt that. Please, it would kill me to think you’re questioning your grandmother’s love.”

I jump down from the windowsill, feeling a little unsteady. The mental image of Seu Romário admitting guilt over Dad’s death keeps running through my mind.

There’s something she’s not telling me about Dad’s accident. Mom and Grandma always refused to take Avenida Coqueirais, always talking about the street in fear. But there was something else. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

“What exactly happened that day of Dad’s accident?” I ask her.

Mom looks desperate. “Who’s feeding you all these things?”

“What happened?” Tears roll down my cheeks. “I’m sick and tired of being kept in the dark.”