She no longer washed all day long with her bitter almond soap. Her body had its own special smell now, the smell of ripe pears. She no longer watched the chess games. Or made tea for her men. Or told them not to be sad. Sometimes she would spread a clean diaper on one of their shoulders and give them the baby to walk around. She herself would lie down on the couch with her knees up, indifferent to the plunging slip that bared her thighs, looking at whoever happened to be holding her baby as one might look at a seascape or distant mountains. Perhaps as inanimate nature looks at us.

Yonatan and Azariah built a dog house for Tia in the garden, her home for as long as Na’ama was small. Inside, Hava had become undisputed boss of the household. Whenever she told Rimona what she must and mustn’t do, Rimona would solemnly reply, “Fine. Thank you. That’s fine.”