“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 laminated pastries are flying!” Jennifer, my lead barista, burst through the swinging kitchen doors, her cheeks flushed with the thrill of the morning rush. We had recently been crowned on the front page of the Boston Globe’s culinary section, and the resulting tidal wave of customers had transformed my little haven into an empire of butter and continue reading …