The next morning, the bell above the shop door chimed at 8:00 AM. It was the first time in three years that Talia hadn't been the one to turn the key.
She walked in, dressed for battle—jeans, her father's old work apron, her hair pulled back—ready for a war council.
Instead, she found a business that was running smoothly.
Sarah stood at the new, cleared-off counter, a legal pad in front of her, the phone pressed to her ear. She was exuding a calm, impressive confidence.
"...Shlomo, I am not asking for forgiveness; I am presenting a plan," Sarah said, her voice steady and firm. "We will pay the overdue amount, plus 5% interest, in 30-day installments. Yes... Yes... Thank you for your understanding. Your wife will get a tin of her favorite honey-cake spice on the house..."
Talia froze by the door. Her mother, whom she had been trying to protect, was a sharp negotiator.
"And Maya?" Talia asked, turning around.
Her sister wasn't in the shop. She was in the back office, the "cave," but the door was open. She was on her laptop, with a graphics tablet—one Talia hadn't seen her use in months—plugged in beside her.
"Tali, you have to see this," Maya said, her voice filled with a creative energy Talia hadn't heard since before their father died. She spun the laptop toward her.
On the screen was a new logo. It was simple, elegant, and stunning. The words 'Solomon & Daughters' appeared in a sleek, modern font, with a single, stylized saffron thread curling through the ampersand.
"It's... it's beautiful, Maya," Talia whispered. "It's..."
"It's clean," Maya said, her eyes shining. "Our old website, the one you were paying that guy for? It's gone. I'm building a new one on a simpler platform. No ads. No clutter. Just... us. The story. The quality."
"Good," Sarah said, hanging up the phone. She made a sharp, decisive note on her pad. "Landlord, handled. Maya, website, handled. Talia..."
Talia instinctively stood taller. "Yes? What's my list? Do you want me to call the German cardamom supplier? I can try to renegotiate—"
"No," Sarah said.
"Okay," Talia replied, shifting. "I'll... I'll start grinding. We're low on the 'Herbs de Provence' blend—"
"No," Sarah said again.
Talia halted, a growing unease creeping up her spine. She felt... useless. She was a general whose lieutenants had staged a takeover and were running things better than she ever had. "Mom? What... what do you want me to do?"
Sarah and Maya exchanged a look. It was a look Talia suddenly realized they had been sharing for weeks, behind her back. It was a look of conspiracy, of love, of pity.
"Sit," Sarah commanded, gesturing toward the stool.
Talia sat, her hands twisting in the strings of her apron.
"We love you, Matok," Sarah began, her voice gentle. "You are the strongest person I know. You have carried this family and this shop. You have been... your father's daughter."
"But..." Talia whispered, knowing what was coming.
"But you're not a very good business owner," Maya finished, her voice soft but firm. "And Tali... we can't fix this," she gestured around the shop, "if you're still struggling."
"I am not struggling," Talia insisted, her voice rising defensively.
"You're not?" Sarah challenged, her eyes piercing. "You're tense, Talia. You're cleaning shelves that are already clean. You're re-weighing bags we've just filled. You're in this shop, but you're not here. You're stuck in that other place. You're a ghost. You're as much of a ghost as he is."
The words hit Talia hard. She had no defense. It was the truth.
"You haven't had a day off. Not one. In three years," Maya added softly. "You've forgotten how. We... we've got this. But we need you to... to step back. We need you to trust us."
"Step back?" Talia repeated, her voice small. "Step back... and go where?"
"Manchester," Sarah said, pulling a piece of paper from her pocket.
"Manchester?" Talia exclaimed, her voice cracking. "Are you crazy? Now? We're on the edge of financial ruin! I am not... I am not leaving."
"We are already off the cliff, Talia," Sarah corrected. "We are climbing back up. But we can't do it with you watching us, waiting for us to fail. You have to... to let go."
She pushed the paper across the counter. It was a National Express coach confirmation.
"I called your Aunt Elara," Sarah continued, her voice leaving no room for argument. "I actually called her two weeks ago, before any of this. I was... so worried about you, Tali. You were... drained. I told Elara. She was furious. She's been angry ever since."
Talia could picture her aunt, a whirlwind of scarves and loving, fierce energy.
"I called her last night," Sarah added. "I told her what happened. With the car. With the contract. She... she went online and booked this. It leaves tomorrow morning. 9 AM."
Talia stared at the ticket. She felt like she was being... banished. Exiled from her own life.
She looked at her mother, at her unyielding, serious expression. She looked at her sister, at her hopeful, pleading, and deeply capable face.
She was being managed. By her own family.
She felt terrified. She felt angry. She felt...
...unbelievably, profoundly, relieved.
A dry sob, half a laugh, escaped her. "You're... you're firing me."
"No, Matok," Sarah said, her eyes softening, her hands finally resting on Talia's. "We're giving you a break. A real one. Ten days. Elara's orders. She said she won't let you come back until you... and I quote... 'stop looking like a haunted Victorian child.'"
Talia dropped her head into her hands, the tension of three years finally breaking. She was being sent away. She was being saved.
"Go pack," Sarah said, her voice filled with a strength that felt like an order. "The work will be here when you return. But you... you are on leave."