“Papa, right now Annie can’t help anyone. She’s got to take care of herself — and the baby she’s expecting.”

February 1964

The door closed on the hubbub downstairs. Annie sat down on the room’s one chair, while Abe stood near her.

“Annie, Charlie Samuels called with the test results.”

“I’m fine, Abie. Just a little virus.”

“It’s not a virus. Annie, sweetheart...” Abe’s face suddenly lightened. “We... that is, you... you’re going to have a baby.”

“What?”

“And Charlie wants you on bedrest, at least for the next four weeks.”

“Bedrest? But why, Abie?”

“There were a few things in the test results that disturbed him. Also, you’re not young anymore.”

No, Annie was no longer a young, sweet, twenty-one-year-old expecting her first, her Mutty. Even when carrying the twins and Ruchele, she’d been relatively young, enjoying perfect health, easy pregnancies, and uncomplicated births. Now....

A frisson of fear ran through her. “Abie,” she said, almost in a whisper, “how am I going to do this? I’m just... I think I’m just too old. I’m over 40, Abie. It’s been years since I had a baby. And a newborn — you need so much strength to deal with those first months. I don’t have that kind of energy and patience anymore.” Her eyes widened. “Abie, Malka is due soon. I’m going to be a grandmother before this baby is born!”

“Well, sweetheart,” Abe said, smiling for the first time since he’d heard the news, “I guess Granny will have to knit more than one pair of booties.”

Annie gave a slight, wan smile in return. “Not Granny. Bubbe.”

Their eyes met, and suddenly they both burst out laughing.

An urgent knock interrupted the moment.