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The morning of the Jewish new year, Kate made challah. With each turn and pull and knead of the dough, she thought of her mother. How much flour is too much? she thought, sprinkling more over her palm and the countertop, scraping up the sticky dough with a metal spoon.

The bread was too dry, and too dense, and the braids were a lighter color than Kate would have liked. But in the evening, the neighbors spread honey on it and complimented it between bites of apples, and when they left they told her shana tova and may her memory be a blessing and she would be so proud of you. Kate smiled and shut the door and emptied the pot under the roof’s leak, and swept the rest of the challah into the trash.

The living room still needed painting. The bathroom needed new grout. The roof was leaking in two rooms. Her mother’s garden was filled with browned and crisped-up plants. Outside, lightning forked the sky; Kate counted the seconds until she heard it.

In the morning, Kate went outside to see that a tree branch had fallen on the roof of her mother’s greenhouse. She closed her eyes and stood, wondering where the money would come from to fix it, and then began to cry.

She took a long walk to the lake, gathering pebbles as she saw them, and sat by the water to reflect on the year. Hands back in her pockets, she slowly made the route back home, stopping to chat with neighbors as she saw them. She mentioned the greenhouse to some, who nodded their heads solemnly — one pressed her hand to her chest in concern — and each one gave her a different piece of advice. Fix it last; I know a good contractor; I bet you could do the work yourself; it won’t be that bad, you haven’t grown much anyway.

One neighbor pressed his lips together in a tight smile. “Maybe it’s a sign,” he said. “Maybe it’s your mother, saying you hate gardening. Don’t keep it for me! Get rid of the thing. It’s a new year, a time for reflection. What would you create in its place?” Kate shook her head, said she couldn’t. The neighbor raised an eyebrow.

“You carry more of your mother in you than in any way you try to emulate her,” he said. “She would not want you to spend your years trying to make her happy. Though the best way to make her happy would be to find it yourself.”

Kate looked at him a long time, and he held up his hands in a shrug. “My best wishes to you for a sweet new year,” he said, taking her hand.

She put her other hand over his. “To you, too.”