Now, four months later, Miriam was still stubbornly clinging to her system. Young Mr. R. was stubborn, too, and she often caught him looking at her when she recorded a sale in her notebook. Sometimes she’d see him entering the same sale into his own tablet. Fine with me, she thought. If that’s what he wants to do, it’s his own business.

Miriam put aside the linen she planned to show Ayala. She looked up as the door chimed, and Malky Neumann came into the store. Her order had come in the day before. Miriam had the bag with the linen prepared. Before she could say hi to Malky, she heard Young Mr. Rubin’s footsteps. He went straight for the shelf where she’d stashed the tablet.

“Please use this today,” he said quietly, placing the tablet on the birch table where they unfolded linens and tablecloths so customers could get an idea of how things would look once they brought them home.

“I can help you,” he said.

This wasn’t the first time Young Mr. R. had told her to use the new program. He’d even offered to walk her through every sale for as long as it took to get familiar with it. Now he just looked at her.

“It’s okay,” she told him, picking up the tablet.

Malky had reached the birch table now, but stood to the side, waiting for Young Mr. R. to go away. Miriam knew this because she wanted Young Mr. R. to go away. Customers always wanted Miriam’s help exclusively.

Young Mr. R. stood there for another second and then walked back to the office.

“Hi,” Miram said to Malky. “Let me get your things.”

Miriam put the tablet aside and reached for her notebook. She didn’t need to defer to Young Mr. R., because she knew he and his father relied on her. Sales were the heart of the business, and she was the heart of the sales department.

After Malky left, Senior Mr. Rubin came out of the office and walked over to her. Senior Mr. R. looked pasty, and he coughed. Miriam wondered if he was feeling well. Then he spoke.

“You’re the best worker we’ve ever had,” he said, “but you know how important this new system is to us.”

They’d had this conversation before.

“Mr. Rubin,” she said now, as she’d said before, “the notebook works for me.”

But today was different. He just stood there, fidgeting with his keys and dabbing his forehead with a tissue. She wondered if he needed a doctor. Then he spoke again.

“Your job is always here for you,” he said. “But you must learn the new system first.”

She looked at Senior Mr. Rubin, and she suddenly felt as if she was going to need a doctor. There was a ringing in her ears, and Mr. Rubin looked like he was standing far away, even though he was only two feet from her. Was he really prioritizing the program over her? She looked at him again. He looked sad, and he looked like he was waiting.

I just got fired, she thought, and he’s waiting for me to leave.

Miriam took her handbag and started walking to the door. Senior Mr. R. walked with her as though she was a guest. He was talking as they walked. She thought she heard the word program, but she couldn’t make sense of his words.

Pluto, she thought. I just became Pluto.

First, she walked. She tried to walk with purpose to bolster herself, but she felt unmoored, like a balloon blowing in the wind. There was a wall right near her — the side of a pharmacy — and she leaned against it for a moment, counting breaths. She needed a moment to calm herself. She could feel her heart pounding. Not a good thing at her age.

She should have been enough, she thought. She’d worked for Senior Mr. Rubin for 15 years, and she never imagined she’d be forced to leave. It hurt.

She wanted to call Eli. It was against her better judgment. He was usually busy and didn’t like to talk on the phone at work. Usually neither did she — but she wasn’t at work anymore.

She called him.

“I was fired,” she said.

“What happened?” he asked.

She told him what Senior Mr. R. had told her about learning the program. She heard Eli typing, she heard the soft clacking though the phone, and she felt the roughness of the bricks through her sweater. She knew there’d be pulls, but she didn’t care.

“You weren’t really fired,” Eli said.

Miriam felt deflated. Eli knew about the tablet she’d stashed on the shelf, and he knew about Young Yitta the Computer Genius. He had told her countless times that she should just learn the program. That’s what he’d done when they upgraded the systems in his office.

She shouldn’t have counted on him for sympathy. Frustration swelled, but before she said anything, he told her, “Use the time you have now.” She heard a voice murmuring urgently in the background.

“I have to go,” he said. “We’ll talk later.”

She couldn’t find the words to answer, but it didn’t matter because there was only emptiness on the other end of the line.

She walked toward the library, which was only a block away. She loved the library. It reminded her of her high school friend Nechama. They had spent hours there, studying together. They’d take their books and papers and spread out on one of the tables. In those days, life felt simpler, and the weight of possibility hung in the air, as if the world was at their fingertips. Now, in the midst of the impossible, the library beckoned, promising solace and a connection to a time when everything felt within reach.

In the library, she felt grateful for the silence. She pulled some books from the shelf marked “New” and sat down. Think, think, she told herself. Her options seemed clear, and rather limited. She could either learn the program and go back, or walk away. She felt tired just thinking about it.

Miriam’s phone buzzed. A message from that boutique where she had ordered her gown for the wedding. Ayala had chosen green, not the best color for someone Miriam’s age, but she’d picked an emerald-green gown, and they’d ordered it specially for her. She had to be sure about it, because there was no going back once the order was placed.

Could she come in now, they wanted to know. How convenient, she thought, if a firing could be thought convenient. But she only answered yes, saying she would be there soon.

She pushed the pile of books aside and stood up to leave. Again the loss of her job filled her. She wished she could do as they wanted, but it wasn’t possible. There was simply no way she was capable of learning something so complicated. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. She’d tried to learn Excel and Photoshop, but when she saw how much there was to learn, she gave up. She always thought of those programs as a pool where you could drown, or a forest where you got lost.

It was just too overwhelming.

On her way out, Miriam noticed a bright flier on the bulletin board. “Update Your Technical Skills,” it proclaimed in a loud, brash yellow. There was a detailed explanation below, which Miriam did not bother to read. In fact, she barely contained the urge to yank the flier from where it hung, crumple it, and toss it into the nearest garbage can.

Later, after her gown fitting, she stood in her kitchen arranging a bunch of red gerbera daisies in a vase. The gown had looked as she expected — very green — and still needed some alterations. She wished Ayala had chosen another color.

The daisies were a sort of consolation gift to herself and also a step toward what she named Project Gracious Living. She had always noticed things around her home that needed attention. Now that she was no longer employed, she’d have more time to focus that attention. Flowers were a good place to start; Miriam was going to be someone who had fresh flowers in all her vases, all the time.

She didn’t want to dwell on what had happened earlier. Better to distract herself. It was good she had Ayala’s wedding. She’d offer Rivky help with the wedding preparations. This was Rivky’s first wedding, and as capable as her children were, there was nothing like experience. She reached for her phone and called Rivky.

“I was about to call you,” Rivky told her. “Can we come over now? We need some pictures for sheva brachos, and I know you have some shots we don’t.”

Miriam had wanted to tell Rivky what happened at the store today and about the gown fitting, but her daughter sounded rushed. Well, they could talk when Rivky got here.

“I’ll get a head start on it,” Miriam told her. “Let yourself in. I’ll be in the basement.”

Miriam went downstairs into the playroom. It was lined with bookshelves, and she stood before the ones with the picture albums, choosing a few relevant ones and placing them on the ping-pong table that stood in the center of the room. She began flipping through pages, pulling pictures she thought would work: Ayala as a baby with her and Eli, another of a surprise birthday party they threw for Rivky about ten years ago, one of Ayala and her younger sister Chavie eating ice cream on her back porch. Pretty soon, she’d amassed a pile, and she began arranging them into a collage. She stepped back to survey her work.

Not bad, she thought.

She heard the familiar chink of her front door closing. Rivky.

“Down here,” Miriam called.

Two sets of footsteps descended her stairs, and she turned to see Rivky and Chavie. They stood in the doorway, Rivky with that huge brown shoulder bag she loved to wear, and Chavie in her school uniform. They both stopped and stared at the ping-pong table.

“I got started,” Miriam said.

Chavie walked over for a closer look. “You chose great pictures, Babby,” she said.

“Thanks,” Miriam said. “We can glue them on a poster board.”

Rivky stepped into the room and started walking around the table. “Look at this one, Chavie,” she said, picking up one of the pictures.

“We were so small,” Chavie said taking the picture from her. “It’s a great shot. Ayala’s going to love it.”

Rivky turned to Miriam. “This was a big help, Ma. It really cuts down on the sorting we would have had to do.” She walked around the table and started choosing photos. “Chavie’s going to scan these, and make a slideshow,” she said.

“Oh,” said Miriam, feeling very small. “When you said pictures I assumed….”

She had assumed collage, and she’d assumed she’d help them make it, but they didn’t seem to hear the unspoken words that hung like a fog around Miriam. Instead, Rivky and Chavie scooped up several pictures and made a neat pile, which Rivky placed into that enormous bag of hers. “I wanted to stop by with Ayala this week so she could pick her linens,” Rivky said.

“About that,” Miriam cleared her throat. “I won’t be there. Mr. Rubin fired me today.”

She felt the resentment unwinding, and she took a deep breath, preparing to tell Rivky what happened.

“It’s that Young Mr. R.,” she started saying, but Rivky spoke at the same time.

“Is this about that program, Ma?” she asked.

“I don’t need a program to do my job,” Miriam said. Simply talking about it was a relief. “I’ve managed just fine without it all these years.”

“Just learn the program,” Rivky said. “I can’t imagine it’s that complicated.”

“I’m not learning the program,” Miriam answered, hardness creeping into her voice. “This is who I am, and if they can’t accept that, I can’t work there anymore.”

Rivky looked at her, evaluating her mother’s words, and then brightened. “Maybe Chavie can teach it to you? She’s great with computers.”

“No,” said Miriam, overcome by that lost feeling again. “Absolutely not.”

“Okay, Ma,” said Rivky. “If that’s what you want.”

There was nothing more to say, and her daughter and granddaughter turned to leave. As Rivky reached the doorway, she turned to face Miriam again.

“Oh, one more thing. Ayala changed her mind about the color,” Rivky said. “We’re wearing blue, not green.”

Miriam thought back to that afternoon’s fitting, how she had stood on a velvet stool while the seamstress pinned the hem. There had been pins in her sleeves and they’d scratched her whenever she moved her arms. It was too late to return the gown. All she could see in her mind was the picture they’d all take at the wedding where she’d be the only one wearing the wrong color, and every time she’d look at the pictures, she’d feel the disappointment again. But she didn’t tell any of this to Rivky.

Instead she said, “I ordered my gown already.”

Rivky reached out and put her hand on Miriam’s arm — an odd gesture for her — and Miriam knew she was trying to be sympathetic.

“You don’t have to match, Ma,” she said. “You’re the grandmother.”

Miriam knew Rivky was trying to make her feel better, but it didn’t work. She felt like there was a little girl inside her, and that little girl threw herself on the floor and began to wail.

After Rivky left, she’d just sat in the big striped chair in the family room. She’d planned to cook supper, but found she didn’t care what happened with supper. She thought she’d sit in the chair indefinitely, but then Eli called saying he wanted her to pick him up from the train station. It was pouring, and he didn’t have an umbrella.

In the car, he tried talking to her about computer classes. They had some workshops at the Center, he told her, or they could access classes online using their library cards. He held out a flier he pulled from his briefcase. She couldn’t look at him — her eyes were glued to the road, because the rain was still coming down in sheets, but she could sense the can-do rolling off him. For Eli, everything was a problem that had a solution. The man she married was simultaneously helpful and irritating.

But she’d already decided she wasn’t going to learn anything new, and she wasn’t going back to work for either of the Mr. R.’s, and she told him that.

“You liked that job,” he said. “You liked having something to do. Now you’re just giving up,”

“I’m not giving up,” she told him. “There’s no other choice. They want something I can’t give them. It’s the end of the road. That’s two different things.”

She didn’t tell him that she was afraid of learning something new, afraid she’d feel overwhelmed. She was afraid she’d never understand it, and in the end, she’d be fired anyway. At least this way, it felt like a choice.

She wanted to talk about the Gown Fiasco, which felt more urgent, not because it was worse than what had happened with her job, but because it was the rawer of the two wounds.

“Rivky switched the wedding color from green to blue,” Miriam said.

“That nice,” Eli said.

Miriam’s eyes were on the road, but she was able to see Eli in her peripheral vision. His face had that cautious look he wore when he thought there was something he ought to understand but didn’t.

“No, it really isn’t,” Miriam answered, irritated. She tried to keep her voice even and low. “I ordered my gown already, and it’s green.”

“Is there a problem with that?” he asked.

“Well, I won’t match Rivky and the girls,” Miriam told him.

“Do you like the gown?” Eli asked.

“Yes,” she said, her voice rising an octave. “Yes, I like it, but that’s not the point.”

There was silence between them at dinner; Eli was still in a careful mood, which meant he didn’t say much. Miriam was grateful for his silence, because there was nothing he could say that could fix what felt broken. Her insides felt like the pieces of a cracked porcelain vase, and anything he’d say would shatter the rest to smithereens.

The next morning stretched wide and empty, and then she remembered she hadn’t put the pictures away. Miriam went down to the basement and stood near the ping-pong table. The pictures lay fanned over the table, a sad reminder of the collage that would never be. Resisting the urge to sweep them all to the floor, she looked around the room, and even though she knew how many closets and shelves there were, she counted them.

It had been years since she last sorted those closets and shelves.

Well, she had time now. She wasn’t going to put the pictures away, she decided. She walked over to the bookcase where the photo albums were and began pulling them from the shelves. When the shelves were bare, she moved on to the closets. Soon those were empty, too.

Slowly the room was filled with piles of things, and Miriam was surrounded by the detritus of decades: ceramic art projects the girls had painted in camp so many years ago, hundreds of books, old report cards, old toys, games with missing pieces, leftover mishloach manos containers, jars of keys and nails, toolboxes, wrapping paper, tissue paper. Miriam picked her way around the piles, stopping briefly and considering each one, taking the jar of nails from one, an old toy car missing wheels from another, a chipped ceramic cat from a third. Soon she’d filled a large black garbage bag with the things she was sure she didn’t want anymore. The rest resisted sorting. How could she give away the toys her children used to play with? Or throw away old books she’d once had such pleasure reading? Or the single containers and baskets that were the only remnants of her Mishloach Manos Greatest Hits?

It was too much.

It was also too much to put everything away, so she walked away, going back upstairs, thinking a second cup of coffee might corral her strength and give her the push to finish. It didn’t work. Instead, she still felt that odd urge to purge, and though a quiet, logical voice in her head told her to slow down, she ignored it, and went upstairs to the bedrooms.

By the end of the day, all the closets were empty. Their doors hung open like arms waiting to gather the contents that used to fill them.

“What’s this?” Eli asked when he came home.

“I’m sorting,” she told him.

“Could you not have tackled one closet at a time?” he asked, but she didn’t answer him. She was back in the striped chair reading a book she’d loved when she first read it 15 years before.

He turned and left the room. She heard his footfalls upstairs, and mentally tracked him. There was silence, and then she heard a soft rustle and the snick of metal on metal. Putting down her book and going upstairs to investigate, she found him hanging his suits and pants in his closet. She saw his drawers were already full of the things she’d removed only hours before.

“It’s fine if you want to pick your clothes from a pile every morning,” he said. “But I can’t live this way.”

“But I didn’t go through your things yet,” she started to say.

Eli didn’t hear her. He was back in his closet with another armload of suits. She watched him come back out and pick up a pile of folded shirts. She didn’t care, she decided. It didn’t matter if he wanted to put his things away. She had plenty to do without his closet, and she could always deal with it another time.

She went back to the striped chair.

As the days spread and melted into weeks, she’d wake up each morning hopeful and sure that today she’d be able to separate the things she wanted from those she didn’t. She’d wander from pile to pile, frozen with uncertainty between what she should keep and what she should toss.

“Put it all back,” Eli told her. “You’ll sort some other time.”

But she could not, and their possessions languished on the floor of her home.

Miriam sat on her chair and watched as the photographer set up Rivky, Ayala, and the rest of her family. All, with the exception of Ayala, obviously, were in powder blue, and the color felt so right for a summer wedding. She refused to look down at her own gown, but she couldn’t help but see her emerald arms. The fabric felt prickly, as if she was allergic to the color.

Even though weeks had passed, and she’d had time to get used to the idea, it still upset her. Eli had surprised her with an emerald cocktail ring. She’d thanked him and slipped it on her finger, but it seemed to punctuate the wrongness of the color. She touched the ring with the pad of her thumb, and she heard Rivky say, “You’re the grandmother.”

Only the grandmother.

She got off the chair and walked around, pretending to examine the flowers. Pink and white, like the linen she’d wanted for Ayala. Senior Mr. R. had called yesterday. He wanted to wish her mazel tov, he told her. Marrying off a granddaughter was a big milestone, he said. Then he cleared his throat, and she remembered how pasty he had looked when he’d fired her.

“Did you have time to get familiar with the program?” he’d asked.

She was in her kitchen when he called, and she had glanced over at the box that arrived via Fedex two weeks before. When it came, she’d slashed it open with a sharp knife. Inside was her iPad. It still had the label with her name on the back of it. She’d left it in the Fedex box and ignored it. She really ought to return it to the store.

She told Mr. R. that no, she hadn’t looked at the program, and he said he knew she was busy with the wedding. She had looked around her kitchen as they spoke. It was one of the only places in her house that wasn’t covered with piles of things. Eli had put everything away one night when she was sitting in the striped chair reading another book she’d loved and then forgotten about. She heard the clatter and scrape of dishes, the clang of pots, and thought she ought to go and help him, but she didn’t. Instead she called out, asking him what he was doing.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he called back, and he was right assuming she’d know. Every day, he’d complained about the mess their house had become, and every day, she’d tell him she tried to make some headway. She did try. At the end of each day, she always had a mostly full black trash bag to throw away. She always intended to do more, but she’d get tired and then she’d find herself in the striped chair.

“I can’t live like this,” Eli would tell her some days.

Other days, he’d hand her fliers and brochures for computer classes or some other technical class that required a computer. They rested in a meaningful pile on top of the box that held her iPad.

“I’m not interested,” she told him. “I’m not learning anything new, and anyway, I first need to tackle the closets.”

He’d just shake his head and go to his study, another room Eli had put back together, saying he needed a sanctuary.

“Ma,” Rivky called bringing her back to the present. “Your turn for pictures.”

Miriam turned away from the flowers and walked to where Ayala stood. She put her evening bag on the chair she’d been sitting in a few minutes before. It had some heft — she’d filled it with an extra pair of pantyhose, a small sewing kit, and Tide Stain Remover wipes. At her friend Nina’s granddaughter’s wedding, one of the kids threw up all over Nina’s cream gown. It was right after pictures, and Nina said they’d tried using seltzer and a napkin to dab the mess off, but it didn’t work because the seltzer was the fancy kind where the bottle was elegant, but the bubbles were weak.

Miriam wasn’t expecting a crisis, but just in case, it would be nice to save the day. She imagined herself cool and graceful, saying, “Oh, you need a sewing kit? Of course I have one.”

“Turn just a little to the left,” the photographer said.

The flash blinded her, and it was a minute before the brightness wore off her retinas. Then pictures were over, guests were arriving, and the music began playing. All wedding days were like this, she thought, with time slowing down earlier in the day and then suddenly speeding up.

She knew she needed to get to the dais, but she was reluctant, feeling that her green gown would be more obviously wrong on a platform where everyone would see.

“Miriam,” someone said. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around.

Before her stood a tall woman, slim, about her age. But it was the small pink birthmark near her right eye that gave it away. She’d know Nechama anywhere, though it had been years since she last saw her. They’d tried to keep up, but then they’d both had young families, and Nechama moved to Lakewood, and soon their daily calls were monthly, then yearly, until they dwindled down to nothing.

They hugged, then looked at each other, questioning.

“Kallah’s grandmother,” Miriam said.

“Chassan’s aunt,” Nechama answered. “I love your gown, Miriam. You always had such great taste.”

And Miriam found herself telling Nechama about the Gown Fiasco as if no time at all had passed since they last spoke. The music was getting louder, and Miriam felt the pull of the dais, but she waited for Nechama’s response.

Nechama laughed.

“Kids,” she said, as if that explained everything. “It’s better you don’t match.”

And suddenly Miriam found that she didn’t care as much anymore.

Miriam sat at a conference table with four other women she’d gone to school with. The table was scattered with iced coffee and muffins, pens and paper, and — she couldn’t help noticing — a couple of tablets.

It was hard to believe Ayala’s wedding had been only a month ago. She’d managed to spend time with Nechama during the dinner, and they’d laughed so much at stories she hadn’t thought about in years. At one point, after a particularly hilarious story, Nechama turned serious.

“I’m working on a fundraiser for our high school,” she said. “You should join the committee.”

Their high school had recently moved into a new building, Nechama said, and there were all sorts of dedications available. Nechama wanted one to commemorate their class. Class of ’79, she wanted the plaque to read.

“No one thinks about donating to their high school,” Nechama admitted. But women remembered the time they spent there, she said, and she was hoping to draw on that sentimentality. She was thinking of organizing a reunion, framing it as a networking event.

“I’m sure they’ll come,” she said. “We just have to get them there.”

At first, Miriam felt doubtful. She was sure women had little interest in reunions. She wasn’t even sure she had any interest, but then she thought about the state of her home, and her interest flared. Joining Nechama in her efforts was certainly more enticing.

That was how she found herself in Lakewood, in a borrowed conference room. The last time she’d been in Lakewood, she’d still worked for Mr. Rubin. It was a thought that gave her an uncomfortable pang. Just last week, she’d dropped off the iPad at the store. Senior Mr. R. had looked at her sadly.

“If you ever change your mind,” he said, leaving the rest unspoken.

But she’d only shaken her head and walked away. The end of the road, she’d told Eli, and that road ran only one way.

“Let’s get started,” Nechama said, and the women all pushed their coffees and muffins aside.

Miriam reached for a pen and some paper.

“Take a tablet,” Nechama told Miriam. “It’s simpler.”

Miriam felt a knot in her stomach, and suddenly she found it hard to take a full breath. She waved her pen weakly at Nechama. “I’ll take notes,” she said.

It wasn’t a long meeting, and the others left when it was over. Nechama cleared the conference table, and as she tossed empty cups into the garbage, she looked over at Miriam. Miriam’s bag was already on her shoulder, and she was trying to think of a graceful way to tell Nechama she wouldn’t be back. She had only recently disentangled herself from the situation with Mr. R.’s program, and she had no intention of getting herself into a similar one.

Nechama spoke first.

“You had no idea what we were doing,” Nechama said.

Miriam felt hot suddenly, and she turned to look out a window. Her back was to Nechama.

“It isn’t such a big deal to learn,” Nechama was saying. “Everyone’s using Trello now. It’s a great program to plan an event.”

“I don’t do programs,” Miriam told her. “Except for Word.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Nechama said, laughing. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Miram didn’t turn around. The truth was Nechama’s words stung. It was one thing when Eli tried to convince her to become more computer literate. He had a knack for it. And Rivky and Chavie were born into it. But Nechama was her peer, and she had managed to keep up. The contrast hurt. She thought of telling Nechama what had happened with her job, but it was too painful, and embarrassing.

She turned around and saw Nechama gathering the tablets and putting them into a small box.

“Why don’t you play around with the program until we meet next time?” Nechama asked.

The idea filled Miriam with dread, but she didn’t say anything. Nechama continued talking. “I’ll email you a link to the program,” she said. “Just download it and play around with it.”

No, Miriam wanted to say, but something held her back. “What if I just don’t get it?” she asked. “What if I mess something up?”

Nechama looked at her and laughed.

“It won’t happen,” she said. “The program isn’t that sophisticated.”

They walked toward the door, and Nechama shut the lights. Then she turned to Miriam again.

“You were always stubborn,” she said. “Use that stubbornness and learn something new.” She laughed again.

Miriam felt something softening in her. She thought about Mr. Rubin, and how he’d looked when she returned the iPad. She thought about how she couldn’t put any of her things away, because she couldn’t decide what to throw away, and so instead everything just languished on the floor.

In her mind’s eye, she saw the mess that littered her floors — old report cards, the pink hat Rivky wore when Miriam brought her home for the first time as a newborn, the lavender belted suit she wore to her last sheva brachos, the toile patterned box that held all the menus from every Yom Tov all the way back to 1992.

What am I doing holding on to all this, she wondered?

And then, she realized.

She was holding on to a past self. A past self that had mattered and had been important. That’s why she couldn’t put her things away. That’s why she couldn’t learn a new program. She liked that past self, hadn’t wanted to let it go, but at the same time, that old self felt shunted to the side, less useful and less relevant. It was why the closets remained empty; Eli had put some things away, but really it fell to her to do the rest. Eli needed her to do it.

That was key. Her old self was someone people needed.

But people could need her now, too. It could be different, she realized.

“It will be faster at our next meeting,” Nechama told her as they walked to their cars. “Next time you’ll know what to do, and we’ll get even more things done.”

She kissed Miriam lightly on the cheek and drove away.

Miriam stood watching her car disappear into traffic. Suddenly she felt an urgency to get home. There were things to put away.

She got into her car, pulled out her phone, and scrolled through her contacts. There it was: Yitta Computer. Her finger hovered over the phone. There were things she needed to learn.

Suddenly everything seemed possible.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 849)