The silence in the small, fragrant shop was palpable. It was heavier than the scent of cinnamon and deeper than the dark, carved wood of the shelves. It felt like a lifeline being severed.
Maya, her face pale beneath her bright, pink-streaked hair, was the first to react. She didn't cry. Her artistic, dreamy softness disappeared, replaced by sharp, brittle anger.
"Fired?" she whispered, incredulous. "What do you mean, fired? For one accident? Over some stupid saffron? Who does that?"
"The Asher Group," Talia whispered back, the name tasting like ash. "I called. They... they said my contract was terminated. A replacement is already on the way. They were so cold, Maya. Like I was nothing."
Sarah, who had been frozen with her hands still raised from trying to comfort Talia, became still. The soft, concerned look in her eyes shifted to a familiar, steely pragmatism. It was the same expression she wore in the weeks after her husband's funeral—the look that had kept the shop from falling apart.
She didn't ask, "What happened?" or "Are you okay?" Instead, she asked the only question that mattered.
"Talia," Sarah said, her voice firm and quiet, cutting through the panic. "The quarterly lease payment due on the first. What did this Élan contract cover?"
The question was a sharp jab to Talia's despair. All the emotion, exhaustion, and anger at the man in the Rolls-Royce vanished, replaced by the cold, numerical dread she faced every day.
"It..." Talia's voice cracked. She couldn't look her mother in the eye. Instead, she stared at the worn dark wood planks her father had laid by hand. "It wasn't just profit, Mom."
She looked up, her gaze haunted. "It was everything. The Élan payment. It covered the lease, the utilities, and... and the down payment for Maya's next term."
Maya spun around. "Tali, no—"
"I was counting on it," Talia pressed on, her words spilling out. "I was so close. I had it all balanced. Just one more delivery, and we could be safe for another month."
She finally sank onto the small wooden stool by the door, covering her face with her hands. The sobs that came were not the hot, angry tears from before. They were the wracking, hopeless sobs of utter defeat.
"I can't do this," she cried, muffled by her spice-stained palms. "I can't. I'm so tired, Mom. I'm just... so, so tired. Every day I wake up counting. Counting pounds, counting grams, counting the days until the next bill. I... I'm failing. I'm failing Dad."
This was it. The confession her mother and sister had been dreading. Not just the loss of money, but the breaking of Talia.
"Stop it," Maya commanded. Her voice was fierce. She knelt in front of her sister, prying Talia's hands from her face. "You are not failing. Do you hear me? It's a stupid contract. It's not him. It's not the shop."
"Maya's right," Sarah spoke, her voice slicing through the air.
Both girls paused, their chests heaving, and turned to look at her.
Sarah walked over, not to Talia, but to the front door. She turned the "Open" sign to "Closed" and locked the deadbolt with a loud click.
"Mom?" Maya asked.
"Enough," Sarah said. She turned, and she was no longer just 'Mom.' She was the matriarch. "We are done. This obsession with you," she pointed to Talia, "carrying everything alone stops today."
"But the lease, the tuition—" Talia started, her voice weak.
"Then the tuition can wait!" Maya snapped, jumping to her feet. "Who cares? I'll get a job. A real one. I'll be a barista. I don't care. You can't keep doing this to yourself!"
"No!" Talia shot back, standing up and feeling the familiar weight of responsibility return, fighting against her exhaustion. "No, your course is... you're brilliant. You're the one who... I am supposed to handle this. I'm the oldest. I'm supposed to—"
"You are supposed to be our sister," Maya yelled, poking her in the chest. "My sister! Not my bank. I hate this, Tali! I hate watching you turn into this grey, tired person who never smiles! I would rather be a barista forever than watch you do this for one more day."
"You will not be a barista," Sarah said, her authority silencing them both. "And you," she said, her gaze softening as she looked at Talia, "are not Atlas. You cannot carry the world. It is not your job."
She cupped Talia's cheek and wiped away a smudge of paprika. "Your father... he left us this shop, yes. But he did not leave it to you alone. He left it to us. 'Solomon's Spices.' Plural. Solomon and daughters. I am not helpless. Maya is not a child. And you are done."
Talia stared at her mother, breath catching.
"Now," Sarah continued, her tone shifting to business. "You will go upstairs. You will wash your face. You will put on the kettle. Then you will come down to the back room and bring the books. All of them."
"What... why?" Talia whispered, drained.
"Because," Sarah said, walking toward the back office, "you are no longer the only one allowed to see them. We will look at the numbers. We will see what's what. We will call the landlord. We will call all our suppliers. And we will figure this out. Together."
Together.
The word floated in the air, strange and terrifying. For three years, Talia had functioned as an "I." I will pay the bills. I will get the clients. I will save the shop. The "I" had been a shield, but it had also become a prison.
She glanced at Maya, who was watching her with cautious hope. She looked at her mother's determined back as she disappeared into the office.
She still felt terrified. The numbers remained catastrophic.
But as she turned and climbed the stairs to the flat, the crushing weight on her shoulders felt, for the first time, a little lighter. The fight was not over. But she was no longer facing it alone.