T

he invitation comes by email, marked with the name of a school Miriam vaguely recognizes. A siddur play, with grandparents invited to attend — and, of course, sponsor. It must be Sarala’s. Miriam misses a good number of siddur plays. It isn’t practical to fly to Chicago for one, to Lakewood for another, and to Brooklyn for yet another, but she does try to sponsor wherever she can.

She emails the school back with her number, then returns to work. She’s still a full-time accountant — will probably be one forever, with two sons-in-law in kollel — and she keeps busy. The numbers line up in neat rows in her mind, and she catalogs the next document, losing herself in the quiet rhythm of monotony.

The phone rings, and she picks up absently. New York area code. “Yes?”

“Hi. Um, this is… My name is Faigy Sellers. I work at the office at Bais Tehilla.” Sarala’s school. Miriam tucks the phone against her shoulder.

“Right, the sponsorship. I’d love to do Sarala’s class’s siddurim—”

“No, I—” Faigy takes a breath. “It’s not about that. We’ll be in touch on that soon. It’s just… I’m also a neighbor. I mean, I live down the block. My boys are friends with Devorah’s boys. And I saw your email and I thought… I wanted to check in.”

“Check in?”

“It’s….” Faigy sounds uncertain, and Miriam is beginning to feel a prickle of irritation. “Have you visited Devorah recently?” She rushes on. “It’s just that the boys always come over, and they’re starving. They never have snacks for school — I send extras for them. And their shoes are falling apart, and Sarala comes to school without a coat. I’ve just been worried.”

“You’ve been worried,” Miriam says slowly. She thinks about Devorah’s kids, the boys moving through her house like a whirlwind, emptying the pantry as soon as they enter. “Look, they’re growing boys. They eat me out of house and home, too. If it’s an issue, I’m happy to order some snacks to your house—”

“No, no,” Faigy says hurriedly. “That’s not what I mean. I’m fine with— I just… have you visited Devorah recently?” she asks again, anxiety saturating the question.

“I’m sorry, I’m getting another call,” Miriam says, and she hangs up without any further preamble.

What was that?

So the boys are big eaters. So they’re hard on their shoes. Sarala has forgotten a coat sometimes. They’re great kids, all of them, cheerful and energetic and loving, and Faigy has no right to judge Devorah from down the block. To call her mother. Miriam speaks to Devorah every week. She’d know if there were issues.

But it niggles, sticking with her through the day like a thought she can’t shake. She brings it up to Akiva that night, but he just seems confused. “Maybe she was just making conversation.”

It wasn’t just conversation. Miriam pushes it aside the next morning, the next afternoon, batting away the uncertainty as she scans a picture that pops up from Rina, her daughters bundled up and red-cheeked in the cold Northeast. It’s cold, and the secretary at Bais Tehilla says Sarala doesn’t always have her coat.

Wouldn’t the school call Devorah first if that happened? Why are they coming to Miriam?

She scrolls back through her emails and contemplates the siddur play notice again. It’s in three weeks, scheduled for that stretch of time before Purim. Too early to be caught up in Pesach preparations, and not in the busiest part of tax season. Akiva wouldn’t be able to leave work then, but that’s fine; it’ll be enough of a burden for Devorah to host Miriam.

She’d just like to be there for the siddur play. The nosy neighbor has nothing to do with it. Elchonon’s parents are in Eretz Yisrael, and Sarala deserves to have at least one bubby at her siddur play. And it really has been ages since Miriam has visited. That’s all.

She pulls up ticket prices and calls Devorah.

D

evorah hadn’t sounded thrilled about Miriam’s visit, but that’s Devorah, always a little reluctant to spend too much time with her mother. “We don’t really have space for you in the house,” she pointed out. “The older boys share one bedroom, and Sarala and the babies have the other one.” But she’d found a neighbor — not Faigy, thankfully — with a finished basement and a guest room, and Miriam scheduled in a nice five-day trip to Brooklyn.

She pushes Faigy’s insidious comments from her mind with steely determination. On the phone, the kids had sounded the same as always, enthusiastic and happy to see her. And when Devorah arrives at the airport on Wednesday, her two-year-old and three-year-old both bouncing with excitement, Miriam dismisses her doubts altogether.

The kids are doing great. “Bubby! Bubby!” three-year-old Sholom exclaims, reaching his stubby little fingers out to Miriam. He’s been playing in the dirt again, Miriam notices. It seems sometimes like his nails have a permanent crust of dirt beneath them.

Miriam hoists him into her arms, beaming at Devorah. “It’s good to be here. Freezing. But good. And Sholom stayed home from playgroup to come pick me up!”

“I don’ like playgroup,” Sholom informs Miriam. “I like home.”

Devorah laughs. “He stays home whenever he sleeps in. Which is half the time. But what’s he learning in playgroup, anyway?” Devorah works from home, so Sholom is perfectly fine with her all day. Miriam had offered to pay for three-year-old playgroup for him, but if Devorah doesn’t mind having him around, then Miriam doesn’t begrudge her it.

“I thought I’d drop you off at the Twerskys first so you could settle in,” Devorah says once they’re all back in her minivan. There’s an odor to the car; too many children from too many carpools discarding food in unknown spots. Miriam gingerly moves her foot to rest over a pile of old, dirty tissues. “Then we could meet up at the pizza store around the corner for dinner.”

“We could order in instead,” Miriam suggests. “I don’t want to make you drag all the kids out in this freezing cold.”

Devorah waves a hand dismissively. “Nah, it’s fine. We’re New Yorkers, Ma. We’re used to the weather.”

Something about the dismissal fills Miriam with unease. Have you visited Devorah recently?

There’s nothing wrong in the house. Miriam can see it from across the street where she’s staying, another narrow, off-white house in a sea of houses. She can see some decorations, still on the window from Chanukah, and a discarded beat-up old scooter on the lawn. It’s a typical home. It’s just like everyone else’s.

Faigy is wrong, wrong, wrong.

T

he boys come bounding out of the house in short sleeves, and Sarala isn’t wearing a coat. “Aren’t you cold?” Miriam dares to ask as they walk down the street together, Devorah still buckling the little ones into their double stroller.

Shua, eight, and as independent as his mother, shrugs. “I’m never cold,” he pronounces proudly. “Tatty says I have warm blood.”

Unbidden, Miriam glances down. His sneakers are coming apart, the fabric in the front separating from the soles, and she swallows back a wave of nausea. “You need new shoes,” she says without thinking.

“Why? Mine are fine.” For an instant, Shua’s eyes flicker, a guarded expression on his face, but it’s gone so quickly Miriam might have imagined it. “I get the bench seat!” he shouts, racing ahead of seven-year-old Eli.

Sarala lingers behind them, and Miriam falls into step beside her. “Excited for your siddur play?”

Sarala nods enthusiastically. “Mommy got me a new fancy headband for it! Wanna hear the songs?” Without waiting for Miriam’s acquiescence, she launches into song, and Miriam smiles indulgently and tries to enjoy her grandchildren, no strings attached.

She buys two pies for the seven of them, and notes with surprise that all the kids except Sarala eat two slices. The older boys have three each. “Are they always this hungry?”

“Boys,” Devorah says, shaking her head. “You were lucky you just had girls.”

The toddlers race around the pizza store, occasionally crashing into people, and Devorah watches them indulgently, making a few token comments before she returns to her conversation with Miriam. Eventually, the kids go outside together to run home, except for Sarala, who stays close to Miriam.

There’s no easy way to broach the topic, but Miriam wants to ask — about the clothes, so inappropriate for winter. About the way even little Sholom and Avi wolf down their food. About the way Sarala’s pretty hair is matted and greasy. About the shoes, ragged and coming apart.

All she can say is, “Is everything okay?”

“It’s great. We’re loving this visit from Bubby,” Devorah assures her.

“I’d love to take the kids to the shoe store—” She stumbles over the words, each emerging more accusing than she’d like.

Something closes off on Devorah’s face. “It’s too early for that. You get them shoes before theirs fall apart, and they’ll destroy them. I like to wait until their shoes are actually unwearable, or I’m buying new shoes every month.”

“They look pretty unwearable to me,” Miriam says, and Devorah’s eyes narrow.

“How about you leave my kids’ shoes to me?” For a moment, she’s that teenaged girl again, annoyed about her mother asking about her homework for the hundredth time. “I’ve got it under control.”

But Devorah had never had her homework under control. She had passed high school by the skin of her teeth, resisting Miriam’s attempts to help her. Devorah doesn’t want help or well-meaning advice. And if she’s decided something, then that’s just how it goes.

Miriam clears her throat. “Right, of course. I was thinking — tomorrow, why don’t I take Sholom to playgroup and then spend the day with Avi? Get him out of your hair so you can work in peace?”

Devorah gives her a grudging nod. “That would be nice,” she concedes. “I can bring them to you at nine?”

“I can pick them up,” Miriam objects. “I don’t want to bother your neighbors—”

“It’s fine. They won’t mind.” Devorah shrugs, grabbing the stroller as Sarala follows her out of the pizza store obediently. At Miriam’s frown, she explains, “I’m just not ready for company yet. I know you like things crazy clean. The house will be ready for Shabbos.”

Crazy clean. Devorah has always been Miriam’s messiest daughter; her clothes scattered on her floor all through childhood and her closet a horror even their housekeeper hadn’t dared step into. Miriam doesn’t expect her house to be any different. She’s never expected Devorah to turn exactly into her mother.

Maybe this is all Devorah’s being cagey about, really — her messy house. It could be nothing.

But Miriam quietly vows that she’ll be there early, finally getting a glimpse of the home Devorah is hiding from her.

W

hen she knocks at the door at 8:45 the next morning, there’s no answer at all. Miriam knocks again, then tries the bell, and finally, the door creaks open to reveal a dark living room and Sarala, still in pajamas.

Sarala holds a finger to her lips. “Mommy’s sleeping.”

“Sleeping?” Miriam glances at the time again. “Are you… are you sure? Shouldn’t you be at school by now?”

Sarala shrugs. “I go when Mommy wakes up. Shua and Eli went before but I don’t have a bus.” Her hair is sticking up, tangled in places and oily in others, and Miriam feels her stomach knot together.

“When did you last take a bath?”

Sarala shrugs.

Whenever she arrives at Miriam’s house, she looks like this — unkempt, the product of hours in the airport and on a plane. Miriam always has Devorah bathe the kids right away, refresh them to their usual selves.

But with a sinking sensation, Miriam is suddenly uncertain how Sarala’s real self might look. “How about we go take a bath now, and then I’ll take you to school?” she suggests, and her heart stops at the way Sarala’s eyes light up.

“Okay! We just have to stay quiet. Mommy’s really tired.” She walks upstairs on light feet, careful not to make noise, and Miriam glances around at the darkened living room-dining room.

It’s a wreck. There are discarded wrappers and clothing on the floor, old homework sheets littering the couches and toys carpeting the ground. An unpleasant smell sinks its way into Miriam’s nostrils as she picks her way across the room, sour milk and spoiled food and dirty diapers.

Miriam peeks into the kitchen and finds dishes high in the sink, an overflowing garbage can, an empty pizza box on the counter, and a fridge full of expired yogurt and rotting fruit. Before she can check the pantry, Sarala is back downstairs to get her with a threadbare towel, ready for her bath.

Miriam washes her hair with a shampoo that’s mostly water, then brushes it out and braids it. Her bedroom is empty, but Sarala assures her that it’s fine. “Sholom and Avi climb into Mommy’s bed after Tatty leaves in the morning,” she whispers. “They wake up late.”

“Right. Of course.” Miriam feels dull, stunned, shell-shocked. She hasn’t processed this yet. She can’t process it, not until Sarala is safely in school and she’s alone again.

There are no clean uniforms, so Miriam tries spot-cleaning the one on the floor, scraping off an old stain before she helps Sarala into it. There are no clean tights, either, and Miriam makes a command decision. “Wear these socks,” she tells Sarala. “We’ll pick up more on the way to school.”

She knocks gently on Devorah’s door until she hears a groggy response. “I’m taking Sarala to school,” she calls. “I’ll be back soon for the boys.”

They stop at a pharmacy along the way, and Miriam buys two pairs of socks for Sarala. “Keep one in your knapsack just in case you don’t have a pair another time,” she says. Sarala nods, her freckled face very serious, and she reaches out to clutch Miriam’s pinky with her whole hand.

Something cracks in Miriam, right then and there.

She averts her eyes from Sarala as they walk, keeping her questions measured.

How often does Mommy do laundry? Sometimes. When there are no clothes left.

What does she eat for breakfast? She doesn’t, unless she finds a yogurt that doesn’t smell funny.

Who helps her with her homework? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t seem sure she has homework at all.

They walk into Bais Tehilla together, and Miriam signs Sarala in, tensing as the woman at the front desk looks up. “Oh,” she says, smiling at Sarala. “Is this your Bubby? I heard she was coming.”

Sarala bobs her head. “Bubby braided my hair,” she says, running her hands over her hair with pride.

The woman says, “I’m Faigy Sellers.” She has a narrow face, a sharp chin, but her eyes are kinder than Miriam had imagined, empathetic as she watches Sarala hug Miriam and run off to class. “It’s… it’s nice to meet you.”

“Everything is fine,” Miriam retorts. It sounds too high-pitched, too short, too defensive. Too much like she has something to hide, like Faigy Sellers had been right to raise the alarm. Too much like Devorah’s private business is public knowledge now, like it’s exactly as bad as Faigy had implied, like it—

She makes a sharp about-face and flees from the school, her head and heart pounding in a twin galloping cadence.

S

he bathes the boys, too, scrubbing caked-in substances from their hair and the folds of their legs. Then she runs a load of laundry, then a second one, while Devorah makes loud and irritated noises from her computer.

“I knew you’d be like this,” she grits out. “I knew you’d be judgy.”

“I’m trying to help,” Miriam snaps back, frustrated. “There’s nothing wrong with… with being overwhelmed, with needing some extra support. If I could pay for a weekly cleaning lady—”

“I’m not getting a cleaning lady,” Devorah says irritably. “Do you know how long it takes to find someone trustworthy and reliable? And then to train them when you don’t speak the same language? We clean up fine for Shabbos, if you’d just waited—”

But they don’t. Miriam picks up garbage from the floor and finds unsigned homework sheets under a bookcase dated weeks before. Chanukah projects are still wedged between the cushions of the couch. The rotting fruits in the fridge have been there far longer than a week.

Devorah watches her in sullen silence. “Look,” she says finally. “I know your house is different from mine. Honestly, it was always kind of dysfunctional, how OCD you were about keeping it clean. But my kids are happy and healthy, and they like our house. Elchonon and I are busy, but we make sure they have everything they need. So you don’t need to be so… so over-the-top about this. It’s not a big deal.”

It’s not a big deal, except Miriam wants to sob when she thinks about it, little Sarala in that darkened, filthy house, her beautiful blonde hair all matted down and dirty. The boys with their torn shoes and flushed skin, the dirt under Sholom’s fingernails.

How had this gone so wrong? Devorah was the youngest, had rarely been in a position to take care of anyone else when she’d been little. Her first apartment had been messy, Miriam remembers, the kids wild and cooped up, but they’d been sure a house was the answer. Space. A place to spread out.

This is… this isn’t just mess. This is neglect. It’s like a story from an ad for social services. Devorah works in stubborn silence, and the babies toddle around the house, watching Miriam as though they can’t understand what Bubby is doing. When Miriam moves into the kitchen, Avi tugs down a container of toys and spreads them across the room like he can’t imagine where else they might belong. Sholom pulls his mother’s skirt. “I’m hungy,” he declares.

“In a minute,” Devorah says vaguely, glancing at her phone.

Sholom doesn’t wait for his mother. He pulls down a box of cereal and pours it into a bowl, eating it in fistfuls and scattering extra cereal everywhere.

And Miriam gets it. She does, even if she’d never had boys. Kids are messy, and the rooms she’s cleaned are already becoming filthy again. Devorah glowers at her as though she’s challenging her to comment on it, and Miriam stays determinedly silent, sweeping again and then venturing, “Why don’t I do your Shabbos shopping? I can bring the boys with me.”

She buys enough to restock the fridge, then cooks enough to be sure there will be leftovers. There’s a feverishness to her movements, a determination to make this week count.

For five days, she’s here in Brooklyn, here to look after her daughter and grandchildren. Five days, and they can get a fresh start, can return to how things were before they inexplicably fell apart. Devorah has gotten herself into this rut, and Miriam is going to help her dig out of it, even if Devorah is an unwilling participant.

“I don’t understand,” she tells Akiva that night, after she’s made dinner in a kitchen that was cleaner, if not spotless. Elchonon had whistled when he walked in at eight. Well, your mother is really here, isn’t she? he’d said to Devorah, and they’d exchanged eye rolls, in perfect agreement at Miriam’s unreasonableness.

“I don’t understand,” Miriam says again, the phone trembling in her hand. “What did we do wrong? How could we have missed this?”

“Are you sure it’s that bad?” Akiva asks, skeptical as always. “Devorah’s always been a little different from you when it comes to… all this housekeeping stuff. Maybe you’re overreacting.”

“The boys’ shoes are breaking apart. Sarala couldn’t remember when she’d last bathed. I’m not overreacting.”

“Right, yeah. Just… I used to go through a ton of shoes, too,” Akiva points out. “And Sarala is five, so not really the best judge of time. On Succos, she told me Avi was born ‘yesterday.’ ” He takes a breath. “You don’t have the best relationship with Devorah,” he says gently. “She always keeps her distance. Are you sure you aren’t seeing the worst so you can feel like she needs you again?”

It’s a probing, painful kind of question, digging at Miriam’s insecurities until she isn’t sure. “It was filthy,” she says at last. “There was a roach. And the kids don’t do their homework. The boys leave for school before Devorah wakes up in the morning, and they don’t have lunch or snacks. I think she’s in trouble, Akiva, no matter how little any of us want to admit it.”

Akiva sounds dubious. “Just tread lightly, Miriam. You know Devorah isn’t going to listen if you don’t.”

BY

Shabbos, Devorah’s house is a wreck again. The kids have freshly washed Shabbos clothes, thanks to Miriam, but they’d been left in piles on their beds instead of folded and put away, and they’re wrinkled and smell faintly of mildew. Elchonon and Devorah don’t seem to notice, and Miriam wonders if she’s nitpicking — if the kids are fine, the house is fine, and Miriam is only looking for reasons to criticize.

She plays games with the kids while Devorah and Elchonon nap, and she doesn’t pry too much. Instead, she lets them lead the conversation. Sarala is enthusiastic about her siddur play and the new fancy headband Devorah has bought for her, and Miriam bites her tongue instead of asking when was the last time Sarala has gotten new clothes.

There is a sense, she thinks, of poverty, which is utterly out of place. Miriam and Akiva are very well off, and they’ve happily paid tuitions and mortgages. Miriam does Elchonon and Devorah’s taxes, and she knows they make enough to live, even if they’ll never be wealthy. It isn’t a question of money.

It’s something else, seeping into the walls of the room. A malaise that has transformed into fatigue, into a comfort with discomfort. The same executive dysfunction that had been Devorah’s worst enemy in school. An unwillingness to shoulder the responsibility of a household, even after ten years of parenting.

Miriam remembers that little girl with her fingers wrapped around Miriam’s pinky, that anxious five-year-old who clung to her. Where had that little girl gone? Why was she so determined to do this on her own when she’s faltering, when she’s so clearly struggling?

She takes the kids to the playground a few blocks away, her heart thumping hard when she spots Faigy Sellers. She averts her eyes, pushes Avi and Shua on the swings, refuses to humiliate Devorah or herself by confirming any of Faigy’s suspicions.

Havdalah comes too quickly. The kitchen is a mess, and Miriam knows with grim certainty that it won’t be cleaned again until next Shabbos at the earliest. She suggests, her voice tentative, “I don’t have anything to do, anyway. Why don’t I wash the dishes?”

Devorah gives her a sharp look. “We’re fine,” she says. “I’ve told you a thousand times, we don’t need your help. I can take care of my family.”

And Miriam is flying out tomorrow afternoon, after the siddur play. She might not be back in this dark, haunted house again, and the words push their way out of her, as foolhardy as they are. “You haven’t,” she says, her voice low. “These are my grandchildren, and they don’t have — they don’t have clean clothes or food in the fridge—”

“How dare you,” Devorah says, her voice cutting. “Like you had it all under control all the time when we were little? How often did we get pizza for dinner because it was tax season?” She takes a step forward, face shadowed in the dim kitchen lighting. The children are listening, clustered near the table and in the dining room, their eyes fixed on their mother and grandmother. “You had daily cleaning help, and you want to judge me because I don’t clean as often as Francesca used to? My kids have everything they need. Ask them!”

She turns, pointing at Sarala, and Sarala bursts into tears.

Miriam stumbles back, aghast at Sarala’s dismay and Devorah’s fury. At the way this has turned into a series of accusations against her. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. You’re fine. Okay.”

She holds up her hands as Devorah lifts Sarala into her arms, and makes a slow, uneasy exit as her daughter glowers at her.

S

arala’s siddur play is scheduled for 9 a.m., but Miriam is up at six, staring at the ceiling in her host’s apartment, thinking blankly of what she’s about to leave behind. Sarala. Her brothers. Devorah, who insists she doesn’t need help.

She thinks of the family, sleeping in until who knows when, and she hurries across the street and stands at their front door at 8:30. She’s relieved to hear movements from inside, harried calls she can’t quite make out. No one has slept in today.

But when she knocks, it’s a tearstained Sarala who opens the door. “Bubby!” she wails, burrowing into Miriam’s dress. “Bubby, we can’t find it!”

“What’s wrong? What are you—?”

“My headband!” Sarala sobs. “My new fancy headband! Mommy can’t find it anywhere!”

Miriam pushes into the house, lifting Sarala into her arms. Her brothers are racing up and down the staircase, calling out reports.

“Not in the basement!”

“Did anyone check under her bed?”

“I looked there!”

Elchonon is taking apart a coat closet that bears a frightening resemblance to Devorah’s childhood closet. Miriam takes a breath. “Where did you last see the headband?”

“I don’t know! Mommy said she put it somewhere safe, but it isn’t there!”

Put it somewhere safe. That had been Devorah’s code, once upon a time, for hiding something in her room and forgetting about it. Miriam remembers it well.

With grim determination, Miriam walks upstairs. “Devorah? Devorah, have you checked…?”

She stops. Devorah is sitting on Sarala’s bed, tears coursing down her cheeks, her face in her hands. “Devorah,” she says, her heart racing.

“Tell me I was wrong,” Devorah says, her voice coming in starts and stops. “Tell me I’m not fine. That I’m doing everything wrong… being a mother, being a wife—” She gulps in a breath. “I can’t find it. I got her the headband — she was so excited, I never get her these things unless we’re at your house — we went shopping together, just the two of us, and I— I lost it.”

She looks up, her eyes blazing. “I messed this up. I always—”

“Stop.” Something takes hold of Miriam, something firm and familiar. She walks to the bed, sits opposite Devorah, wraps her hands around Devorah’s wrists. “Stop. You didn’t mess anything up. You got the headband, right?”

Devorah nods shakily. “I can’t do this,” she whispers. “I can’t do any of this.”

I can’t do it. That little hand clutching her pinky finger, that freckled face pale. I don’t know any of the girls. What if my morah’s mean? What if the girls don’t like me?

“Breathe,” Miriam instructs her, as she has a thousand times. How has she let her daughter move across the country, with no one to guide her? How has she let Devorah slip so far away?

She closes her eyes. Thinks like Devorah, imagines the room around her and its discarded clothes, its forgotten books, its broken drawers and heaps of blankets. There had been a time when she’d been able to cut through the chaos, when even Devorah had trusted Miriam to take care of her.

And then, she gets up, walks across the room, and finds a nondescript black shopping bag tucked in the back of the top shelf of the closet.

Inside is a beautiful white headband with a big bow, ready for a girl about to receive her first siddur.

T

he siddur play is adorable. Sarala shines, stealing the show in her role as Malach Number Three. Devorah sits beside Miriam, subdued until Sarala is called up to get her own siddur, and then she cries again, silent and helpless.

Devorah loves her daughter, Miriam knows with utter certainty, adores all her children even if there’s a block between her emotions and her actions. She’s just gotten… stuck. Lost on a detour along the way, and without a light to guide her home.

Miriam knows the feeling.

They snap photos together, Sarala smooshed between their beaming faces, and then Sarala runs off to one of her friends. “I’d like to take her out for ice cream,” Miriam says. “And you, too, if Elchonon can watch the boys for a little longer.”

Devorah nods jerkily.

“And then I’ll take an Uber to the airport. I don’t want to inconvenience you on your day off.”

Another jerky nod.

Across the room, Miriam spots Faigy Sellers, standing with the principals. Her gaze crosses Miriam’s for a moment, and Miriam holds it without thinking, gives her a slow, imperceptible nod. A thank-you she can never say aloud. Faigy nods back, her eyes warm, and Miriam doesn’t know why she’d ever thought the other woman had looked narrow-faced.

“I’m going to come back in two weeks,” Miriam says. “This time, for a little longer. I can sleep on the pull-out couch in the basement. We’re going to make sure you have the help you need.” They’ll have to figure out what exactly that is: financial help, cleaning help, homework help, therapeutic help. Miriam isn’t sure, doesn’t know exactly what has dug its way into her daughter’s heart and left her struggling.

But they’re going to get to the bottom of it. Miriam has failed Devorah for the last time.

Devorah doesn’t answer. But her arm shifts from against Miriam’s, and three long, slim fingers wrap their way around Miriam’s pinky.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 982)