Ambition is a word known by those who have not had too many early mornings and too many late nights dozing off before their husband is home from his new rehearsal space that practically resides in the next county. Unaffected by the double espresso guzzled on the drive over, I enter the back door to the bakery with a groan, tired and wishing I had slept in and seen my husband when he wakes in oh, four more hours.

When my purse lunges into the cubbyhole of a locker, it hits the back with a bleak thud. My fingers shut the door with such aloofness it gently reverberates and drifts back before my hand begrudgingly slams it shut. With a muffled whine, I shuffle toward the kitchen. A small fire emitting from the decorating bench causes me to shriek. The lit tapered candle reminds me of a tiny funeral pyre. Slowly it rises to Donovan’s face as he sings “Happy Birthday” so off-key it makes me shudder.