I could always tell the mornings when my dad was cooking caramel in the back of his candy store — the sweet aroma filled my senses even before I walked through the swinging door of his chocolate store. The copper kettle he stood next to resembled a cauldron, and I used to imagine that I was a witch brewing a secret potion. My father stirred the caramel in figure-eights using an oversized wooden spoon, my young hands resting underneath his. For a time, I actually believed I was doing the work. But the tougher realization was that I would never want to follow in his footsteps.

For more than thirty years, my father has been the proverbial kid in the candy store. Three decades surrounded by chocolate seems like more of a dream than a job. But having been born into a sugarcoated dynasty, I’m the only one of my siblings who hasn’t been won over by the chance to live in Candy Land forever. I appreciate the significance of having a part in such a successful family business as Lazar’s Chocolate, but frankly, the idea of carrying out this legacy is less desirable than a root canal.

It is this common obsession with chocolate, buttressed by community support, which has kept my father in business for over three decades. Nearby stores constantly hang “for rent” signs in vacant windows and are usually replaced by big chains and banks, but Lazar’s Chocolate is a household name in my hometown. No matter how far I try to run, chocolate has been my constant connection to home. While studying abroad in Prague, I met a young guy familiar with my Long Island hometown and within the first few minutes of our conversation he recalled, “You know what I really miss? Lazar’s Chocolate.”

But I could never identify with the consumers’ ongoing fascination. Customers still ask me questions regarding the store, hoping to gain insight from the daughter of the candy man himself, as if I am hording some secret recipe. They think their comments are witty, but at this point I’ve heard it all. Let me lay some of the myths to rest now: I do not have an Oompa Loompa and my dad isn’t Willy Wonka. Why don’t I carry around chocolate in my pockets? It would melt. I don’t live in a gingerbread house, I can’t eat my bed or walls, I don’t have to pay for my endless supply and no, I absolutely will never get sick of the smooth sensation of a quality confection.

When I used to work at Lazar’s, customers who I didn’t know seemed to know me simply by family resemblance — my dad’s distinguished nose and my mom’s soft hazel eyes. They used to approach me, pinch my cheeks, pat the crown of my head and recall something like “I remember you when you were just this tall” or “You look just like your brothers.” I remember shuffling uncomfortably in my light-up sneakers as early as five years old, when customers took to calling me Ms. Lazar. It’s a strange feeling to be a walking novelty to a bunch of strangers, even if it’s well-intended.

All of my teenage years were spent working in the Great Neck store, one of three locations. The hours crept by mechanically. The speakers softly hummed Billy Joel and America’s greatest hits repeatedly while I placed gummy worms into plastic bags and wrapped boxes in festive paper: pastel eggs on Easter, Jewish stars on Chanukah and pansies in spring. My brothers and dad, meanwhile, patrolled with iron fists. I circled the work table from breakfast until closing time, putting an array of chocolate pieces into boxes. Each box must weigh the correct amount, be stuffed, taped shut and wrapped to perfection. The first time I successfully constructed a one-pound box of chocolate and my dad approved of its tidy appearance, I was elated. Even the second and third time, I felt the satisfaction of success. But probably somewhere between box four and 4,000 I was ready to run out of the store at the mere mention of boxing chocolate.

My brothers Marc and Jeff have always berated my distaste for the candy business. Of many possible adjectives — lazy, annoying, fast, slow, efficient, scatter-brained — they’d probably describe my time as a Lazar’s employee as unreliable. I guess it would resonate with a sharper sting if I were more surprised, but the truth is their attitude toward me is more of a confirmation of what I already knew about myself and the candy business. I always fell a grand-mariner truffle short of a successful day on the job.

Holidays left me no choice, though. I worked during the hectic months, showing up late and checking my e-mail instead of helping customers. Jeff used to chide me: “An hour late and an hour for lunch?” I was never allowed to attend school on Valentine’s Day because my father needed extra help. I know it seems ridiculous to fall for such a contrived holiday since it was essentially invented for stores like mine. Without Valentine’s Day, it’s true that my closet would only be half full and much less glamorous.