Peeta, that's too much sugar," I say, reaching across the counter to stop my son from putting in a quarter cup too much. Sugar is one of the hardest items to get right now. While I'm mixing up a raisin nut loaf, Peeta's in charge of making a hazelnut pecan cake. It's supposed to be hearty - something that could serve as a meal and not just a dessert.

"But Dad, I tasted it," he says, hand still hovering with the sugar. "It needs something."

"Peeta, we can hardly get the sugar to last through the week. I'm sorry, but you'll have to make do."

"The hazelnut has an aftertaste! Can I at least use honey?"

I'm about to remove the measuring cup from his hand but stop when I feel a sudden change in the temperature of the room. The door's open, letting in the cooler air from the outside flow into the kitchen. I know before I turn around who's standing in the doorway.

"Peeta!" my wife barks, striding across the floor. "You think you know more than your father? A trained baker versus a fourteen year old adolescent? When he tells you no more sugar you listen without being disrespectful."

Sweat glistens on my son's upper lip. He nods and puts down the measuring cup. In one, quick motion, my wife cuffs him on the left ear, then dumps the sugar back into the bin.

"I don't know when it became okay to directly defy your father's orders, but listen here young man! This is not your kitchen. In this kitchen, your father is in charge. You listen to him, you do what he says, and you don't contradict him." Another blow to the other ear. "Now, finish this cake - the counter needs cleaning up front."

Peeta doesn't say anything, even when my wife leaves the room. His ears are bright red from the strikes. He doesn't say anything, even when my wife leaves the room. If I had just let him use the sugar, maybe she wouldn't have hit him. But we are running low and we can barely afford it. Maybe I should have been quieter when I first told him. Explained it, but not reprimanded him. At the very least I should have stepped in and handled the situation before she clobbered him.

"If you want, I can wash the counter up front," I say in a low voice.

"No, that's okay. I'm almost done here." He doesn't meet my eyes. Both his ears are scarlet.

"Peeta, it's fine. I'll-"

"Dad, I can handle it." His tone isn't harsh, but it's not his usual forbearing one. I don't know if it's just the way I feel, but I can almost the hear the disappointment. As if I've let him down. Again.

He finishes up the cake and I don't try to speak to him again. Dinner is subdued. Peeta doesn't talk and neither do I. His brothers must pick up on the tension because, for once, they don't have anything to say. The only break in the silence is my wife's occasional huff. The bread is stale and over-mixed - it would be tough to chew anyway - but tonight it sticks in my throat more than usual. I keep replaying the feud in the kitchen and wondering how things would have gone had I spoken up. I can't come up with a satisfying answer.

When the boys go to bed, I tell my wife that I'm going to ready the final loaves for tomorrow's stock. I'll be up early to put them in the oven before the first customers come in, but they need to finish rising through the night.

"You need to be more assertive with that boy," I hear her say.

I turn around, half expecting a blow. "Sorry?"

"With Peeta. Make him listen to you. He thinks all of the ingredients in the kitchen are at his mercy. I've seen the way he mixes things up. Tries a bit of this, a little more of that. Maybe some people in this country can afford to do that, but we can't. I've been looking over the numbers and we need to sell an awful lot if we're going to make it through the month."

"I know," I mutter. "But he's creative. It's in his spirit, can't you see? Trying new things in the kitchen brings him so much joy."

"There isn't room for joy and creativity when the district is starving." She turns on her heel and leaves the room.

For a long while, I don't move. Perhaps I've misjudged her. After all, I'm not the one doing the budgets. Of course, there was no reason to hit our son. She struck him. Twice. What can I do though? I won't tell Peeta he has to stop experimenting. I could never do that. So, I'll do nothing. Stand and wait for fate to play its cards. It's what I'm best at.