Every Sunday now, she does.

The Sundays are the real ending of this story, the part that matters more than the flour or the panic or the mortifying pointing arm.

Every Sunday, Jacqueline comes, and my kitchen fills with the warm yeasty smell that I could not place on that first empty morning, the smell that had been trying to tell me the truth all along.

She teaches me things: how to tell by touch when a dough has proofed enough, how to read the bubbles in a starter, why the old grains taste of something the new ones have forgotten.