She turned to Chasya. How tall the little girl was getting, and how pretty! Her pale cheeks had bloomed in the three years they’d been in Virginia, practically living outdoors, the weather so much milder than New York’s. And the big backyard of the lovely home they’d purchased with the help of a community fund and their own burgeoning success in both their careers was more luxurious than she’d dreamed they’d ever be able to afford. The roses she’d planted last spring were rioting in all colors, she rejoiced; and the big, old apple tree was heavy with fruit, giving abundant shade over the tables set up for the celebration of her new son’s circumcision ceremony later that day.

“I put all the drinks in the spare refrigerator,” Cheryl said, coming up behind her, her arms juggling little flower-filled vases. She placed them carefully at the center of each table. “There, done,” she said, pushing back her hair, now below her shoulders and a sophisticated shade of ash blond that suited her. She wore slim jeans and a white top with a not-too-low neckline and elbow-length sleeves, as modest an outfit as she was ever likely to wear in this lifetime, she thought. She knew the jeans—well, any pants at all, actually—were taboo, but the top was a clear effort at accommodation, a far cry from the usual low-cut, sleeveless style that was her wardrobe staple. It had taken years, but she and Leah had finally internalized that neither of them was likely to change and that their relationship would entail an ongoing series of compromises. She was doing her best, and so was Leah. Their connection had actually blossomed. She was single again, but wouldn’t be for long. She had her eye on a few eligible candidates. But she was in no rush. She liked her house, her business, her dog, herself. And most of all, she adored her grandchildren, step or otherwise. “What else? Oh, let me steal that baby, what an angel!”

“He’s all yours, Mom,” Leah said, adjusting her head-covering, which had come loose, letting some of her wild red curls cascade over her shoulders. But she wasn’t worried. Unlike Boro Park, in their new community, no one would care if she took it off altogether. Or if she played her music and danced around her living room in joy—something she did regularly. It was live and let live. It was her choice to keep covering her hair. It was a gift to God, she thought. A way of saying thank you and demarcating boundaries.

She walked swiftly over to the jungle gym, pausing for a moment to watch the back of her daughter’s head with its wild curls—the golden shade of her father’s—lifting in the breeze each time she propelled herself forward into the air. She was a little over two years old and already completely fearless.