It was when we lost our apartment that Ronny fell apart, seven years of blistering, blazing anger unleashed

Baking is equal parts science and art — let no one tell you otherwise.

I hate both.

I’m stuck, though. Just like the words in my head, in my throat. Stuck.

“Avivit?” Yaffa pokes her head through the flaps. “Did the timer ring yet?”

I shake my head and continue with the puff pastry. Dot, dot, dot the butter on a third of the dough, fold two thirds over, roll. Dot, dot, dot. If it’s going to be the perfect combination of crisp outside and tiny pockets of air inside, I need to work fast. Roll. Dot, dot, dot.

The shrill ring of the oven timer makes me jump even though I knew it was going to go off any minute.

“Ya-ya-yaffa?”

She bustles in and snatches up the oven mitts to liberate the mini pie shells at that perfect moment before golden turns to brown.

“When you’re done with the pastry, check if the ganache is the right texture for piping and then go through the orders for today to make sure we’re on schedule.” Yaffa scuttles out again as I try to ignore an itch on my chin.

The phone rings and I don’t answer it, of course. But I do hang around to take down the message if the caller leaves one.

Two seconds, three seconds, and then the speakerphone.

“Avivit, it’s me, pick up!”

I’m already smiling as I do.

“Ron-ronny. Hello. Hello.”

“Avivit, guess what? I got two days’ leave and I’m coming tonight! I didn’t text you because I wanted to hear you say you’ll wait up.”

Of course I’ll wait up, funny. I haven’t seen my brother in so long, I should go to bed? You sound good, you sound happy, I’m sure you’re exhausted. I can’t wait.

I say none of this, just concentrate on getting a word or two out of my treacherous larynx.

“I. I-I-I’ll be w-waiting, Ron.”