“Stop overreacting, you’re ruining her day!” my mother hissed, grabbing my hair and pushing me over the balcony railing at my sister’s party. I blacked out. When I woke up, the upscale venue was surrounded by federal agents, and my mother was sobbing on her knees while my sister held a document and begged me…

the kitchen of La Maison d’Or, my bakery on Newbury Street, the sanctuary I had built from the ashes of my past. The ambient heat of the massive convection ovens seeped into my muscles. I plunged my hands into a mound of cool, silky dough, feeling the gluten develop, finding peace in the predictable chemistry of yeast, water, and flour.

“Mom, I did continue reading …