Her dark brown eyes scan my face. I try to smile to show her she doesn’t need to worry, even though I know Dona Selma doesn’t expect me to act brave. But then she tears up, and it makes it harder to keep my own from bubbling up.

She gives me another hug. When she steps back, she looks around the room with concerned eyes like she’s searching for someone.

“I think Mom is in the kitchen,” I say, assuming Dona Selma is looking for her.

“I need you and Alice to take better care of yourselves.” Even the way she says Mom’s name reminds me of Grandma. The same accent. Ah-lee-see. “Why is Salt open tonight?”

“Mom wanted to.”

Dona Selma finally spots Mom in the crowd.

“I’ll go check in on her,” she says, giving my shoulder a comforting squeeze before leaving.

Isabel, who’s Dona Clara’s assistant at the market, approaches me.

“I think there’s something burning,” she says.

Isabel has a habit of letting the cooking oil to deep-fry pastéis burn, so she’s become a bit of a walking smoke detector.

I wrinkle my nose at the faint burnt smell in the air.

Across the room, Mom is still talking with Dona Selma. I should go tell her about the food burning, but I don’t want to interrupt that conversation. I know Mom needs Dona Selma’s words as much as I needed that hug a moment ago.

“Was your mom frying eggs?” Isabel asks, antsy. “You better hurry up.”

“Me?”

I get a jolt of fear. Mom never lets me cook.

“Yes, you. You don’t want the kitchen to burn down, do you?”

I’ve already disappointed Mom at the funeral today, and I can’t just sit around when there’s food burning. But the moment I cross the threshold into the kitchen, my heart beats even faster.

Walking into Salt was hard. But walking into Salt’s kitchen knowing I won’t find Grandma behind the counter is even more painful. The red brick walls feel like they’re closing in.

There’s a frying pan on the stove, the contents—scrambled eggs with tomatoes and cilantro?—already sticking to the pan with an angry hiss. Smoke swirls up, leaving the area near the stove hazy.

I try to open the foggy glass window in the back, but it’s stuck. I turn around frantically looking for a spoon to salvage Mom’s cooking, but there are so many types. Wooden, metal, plastic spoons of all sizes. Which one am I supposed to use? I can feel my pulse in my ears.

I grab the nearest one. A metal spoon. And I start scraping at the bottom of the pan as best I can, but I’m not sure I’m doing this right.