“You’re Just a Baker,” My Sister Screamed—The Next Time They Heard My Name, It Was on a Tokyo Flagship

at my reflection in the polished steel of the oven door. Flour dusted my dark curls. Chocolate smeared my chin. My eyes looked too bright, rimmed with the kind of exhaustion that comes from burning yourself up to keep everyone else warm.

Across the bakery, a customer bit into one of my croissants and her whole face transformed—shoulders dropping, eyes continue reading …