I stood silently gazing at the glinting sunset reflected in the surrounding mountains’ embrace (“the most beautiful sunset in Israel” the real estate agent had gushed). I visualized the second-Temple mikveh of the olei regel that stood just outside the town’s borders imagined walking up the hill to a morning Tanach shiur at eight and then down for Pilates at nine. I admired the array of head coverings on the women — scarves bandanas hats sheitels and of the little boys — blue white black
intricately embroidered Yemenite designs. It was a sea of color — past present and future — nestled within the stark green and brown peaks of the Judean Hills. I liked what I saw. “It’s perfect ” I said. “It’ll be home.”

We moved in just before Pesach. I fell in love instantly with my new house. And like any good relationship it improved with the time and efforts I put in hanging pictures
in the living room planting impatiens and a tree (a real cherry tree in the Holy Land!) in the front garden. My husband was welcomed in shul and soon had his makom kavuah. The makolet lady quickly learned my name. And just as the real estate agent had promised it was indeed the perfect place for raising children. There was just one problem: We didn’t have any.