“I’ve known her ever since we were children, when our mothers let us play together while they worked on the Salt and Sugar recipe.” He breathes hard as if searching for the best words. “Despite everything, I respected Julieta Ramires.”

Seu Romário suddenly bursts into loud, sorrowful tears.

And Dona Eulalia flies back into the office.

“You’ve upset him!” she accuses Mom.

I notice Pedro is back at the door, looking stunned. Behind him, a multitude of curious bakers and customers crane their necks, not daring to step too close, but still trying their best to listen in. When he looks at me, I see the confusion in his eyes. I guess he didn’t know the news about Grandma.

A sob escapes Mom’s mouth like a hiccup. I want to pull her out of Sugar, but I’m stuck to the ground, unable to save her or myself from this mess.

“How can you say that, after all those years of tormenting her!” Mom shouts at him.

“Get out!” Dona Eulalia yells. Her face contorts with so much wrath that tears roll down her cheeks.

Pedro hurries to stand between Dona Eulalia and Mom to keep his mother away from us.

Mom shoves the chair back when she gets up to leave. I jump out of the way at the last second as it smashes into the wall, causing some of the certificates to come crashing down, glass shattering all over the floor.

“GET OUT!” Dona Eulalia screams, a vein bulging in the middle of her forehead.

Mom takes a step closer to the desk.

“If you cross me, if you point fingers at my daughter, if you try anything against my business, I’m not going to hesitate to fight you,” she says, looking straight at Seu Romário. “You may say you’re sorry all you want, but that doesn’t erase the years of pain you caused my mother. The feud still stands. My mother didn’t live her life in vain!”

Mom’s words sound like an official declaration of war.

6

SATURDAY, APRIL 23

I find Mom in Salt’s kitchen the next morning.

There are no customers yet, which is very unusual for a Saturday. But I hope that just means most people don’t know we’ve reopened.

“You’re up,” she says, glancing at her wristwatch.

“I couldn’t sleep anymore.”

The kitchen is warm and fragrant with fresh bread—pumpkin bread, baguettes sprinkled with oregano, brown bread covered in sesame seeds. I notice the fresh bouquet of sunflowers sitting under Great-grandma’s fubá cake recipe. Grandma used to leave those flowers for her mother, like the recipe behind the glass on the wall was a shrine. Now, the flowers are there to honor Grandma for the first time.

Mom catches my surprised glance.

“Why don’t you go grab some stools?” she says. “Let’s have breakfast in the kitchen.”