“Bayla, that siyum was incredible. I have no words. Ma, can you believe what she pulled off?”

M

ike is walking the guests out while I hyperventilate in the privacy of our living room.

Ma sits me down on the couch. “Bayla,” she says.

I look at her.

“Breathe. Just breathe. Slow, in and out.”

I exhale. “Ma, I’m breathing. That’s not the problem here. The problem is that I’m doomed. The showroom opens in four days. And I have nothing delivered yet. Nothing. The tiles and hardware are in a truck somewhere, the appliances are in a truck somewhere, the cabinets are on their way from Lakewood, but not here yet. So I have an empty kitchen on Cherry Street and pretty soon, my desk at Lara Cohen Design will be empty, and I’ll be working as an Amazon Prime delivery person.”

Ma raises her eyebrows. “Wow, that was dramatic, even for you.”

We both laugh, although I think my high-pitched cackle is just masking my sobbing.

Mike walks in and plops down on the couch across from us, stretching his legs out so they’re propped up on the coffee table.

“Bayla, that siyum was incredible. I have no words. Ma, can you believe what she pulled off?”

And he sits there beaming until our death looks finally cause him to sit up.