13. IN BOSNIA

IN THE SUMMER of 2015, the Omeragics took their kids home to Bosnia—and being away from baking, Mersiha could feel her body start to heal.

It was four years since she had started her home bakery.

After just a few days of rest, her back and legs did not ache so much. Her wrists and arms—no longer rolling out fondant and gum paste to make flowers and cartoon characters—felt less stiff.

They stayed with her aunt, her mother’s older sister, in Travnik. She kept jumping up to serve Mersiha, though she was 67. “She wouldn’t even let me get a glass of water,” Mersiha said. “I kept saying, ‘Auntie, sit down!’ ”

She and Hajrudin put over 5,000 miles on the car, crisscrossing Bosnia and Croatia to see relatives and old friends. Ismar, 16, sitting in the back seat, marveled at how relaxed they seemed: “Mom, Dad—this is so cool. You’re not on the computer. You’re not in the bakery.”

Mersiha and Hajrudin were struck by his comment. They began to talk about how they had been living: each of them working, day and night for 20 years.

“The kids never complained,” Mersiha said. “That’s why I didn’t stop.”

“But on the weekends they’d say, ‘Can we go to the movies? Can we go to Barnes & Noble?’ I’d say, ‘Honey, when I finish the order,’ and then the weekend would be over.”

“The bakery was taking away a lot. The kids need attention. We need attention from each other.”

Mersiha and Hajrudin decided to get away—just the two of them. They would go to Paris; Hajrudin’s sister would watch the kids. They would take a pastry class together.

Mersiha had always wanted to learn more about macarons. “To make them perfect, to have that beautiful little foot,” she said. “Not that ugly skirt.”

On their first day, the teacher, a tall Texan named Jason, who had married a Parisian, stopped and watched Mersiha whip together the simple ingredients for macarons: almond flour, sugar, salt, egg whites, and vanilla extract. She did not overbeat or overfold.

“You have more than a little experience,” he said.

She and Hajrudin had never been to Paris. When they asked the hotel’s concierge to recommend some places to eat, she advised them, “Just get lost.”

They found great bread. They drank wine over long dinners. They went to the top of the Eiffel Tower, even though Mersiha is afraid of heights; she could hardly breathe up there.

When they returned to Travnik, her aunt and grandmother drew her aside.

“You need to slow down,” her aunt said, “to think about yourself, your health.”

Her grandmother asked, “Do you really need the bakery?”

That question shook Mersiha. She thought of all the time she had missed with her kids. Soon Ismar, then Faris, would be going to college.

She thought of her mother, only 52 when she died. Sometimes, she would just close her eyes and feel connected to her. Her mother’s red blouse—clean and pressed—hung in her closet.

Folding up her skirt, her aunt showed Mersiha her legs: They were distorted by large clumps of varicose veins, from a lifetime of being on her feet. She had worked in factories since she was 17; she had taken care of her family.

“It scared me,” Mersiha said. “My aunt is just like me. We always work.” She was frightened her aunt would have a heart attack. She begged her to go see a doctor.

The Omeragics returned to Utica late on a Wednesday night. And Mersiha immediately went downstairs and began baking for a large wedding that weekend. After two hours’ sleep, she headed to her ESL class.

That Friday, she got a call—her aunt had had a stroke.

Her aunt was hospitalized for two weeks. Then just as she was about to be released, she had a heart attack.

“My uncle’s daughter sent me a message,” Mersiha said. “ ‘Auntie passed away.’ ”

Her grandmother—who had already lost three of her children—went into shock.

The next morning, Mersiha did not hesitate. Opening her computer, she posted a message on Facebook:

Our dear customers,

While we were away on our vacation, we made a very important decision, and that’s to temporarily close our little bakery. As of today, we are not taking any other orders, but we will finish all the ones we already have . . .