Mom is already setting things down on the wooden counter when I come back with the stools.

Sweet potato. Mashed yams covered in beef jerky. French bread. Butter. A warm bowl of couscous. It’s like she’s trying to feed an army.

“I’m not very hungry,” I say.

“It’s not like you to refuse breakfast,” she says with a wink. And my heart stops, because Mom winks just like Grandma used to. “And you barely ate last night. You need sustenance.”

I join her at the counter, trying not to think about how without a third stool at the center to balance our family out, the counter feels much wider than it is.

Our breakfast begins quietly, just the hum of the fridge in the background.

I add butter to my yams, and the spoonful melts in my mouth, warming me up from inside out. I scoop up the little cuts of beef jerky individually, leftover from last night, chewing on them with my eyes closed. I let the salty flavor spread over my taste buds to wake them up one by one.

I then pull my bowl of milk couscous closer, breathing in the cinnamon-fragrant steam. I try to focus on chewing, but the ache in my heart doesn’t go away.

I can’t go on pretending that we didn’t have that confrontation with the Molinas last night.

“Mom, I wanted to say... I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need for apologies,” she says, slowly slicing a loaf of bread.

“I didn’t destroy the cake on purpose. I went over there to tell them to stop laughing. To stop being loud when Grandma had just—”

I still can’t say it.

Mom takes a sip of her coffee—black, no sugar—then puts it down.

“Forget about last night.” She nods at the dishes in front of me. “Your food is getting cold.”

How can I forget about last night? Seu Romário burst into tears in front of us and told us he respected Grandma. None of it makes sense.

The fridge starts sputtering, like it’s choking on unspoken words, and Mom launches it a wary look. “I can’t have you breaking on me now,” she mutters.

“What did Seu Romário mean last night?” I ask, and the way Mom’s shoulders tense up tells me she doesn’t want to talk about this any further.

“Eat, Lari.”

“What did he mean?” I insist, putting my spoon down.

The bells in Salt clink softly, and Mom rushes into the bakery, almost like she’s glad to escape me.

“Good morning. How can I help you?” I hear her say.

I go join her. I may not be a baker, but I think I should at least start taking orders.