The front door bangs closed. “I’m back!” Mrs. Wine calls.

“Are you going to tell her?” I whisper to Honey. She wipes her cheeks and nose and nods.

“Honey? Aaron?” Mrs. Wine calls.

“In here, Ima.”

Mrs. Wine enters the den through the kitchen, her hands on her head as she’s putting on the snood. I see her register Aaron wrapped in a blanket, Honey with tear tracks on her cheeks, and the broken balloon lady on the coffee table. She drops her hands, and without saying a word, she comes over and eases herself onto the couch, Honey scooching over a bit so she can squeeze in.

“Oh, Aaron,” she says in an exhale, and closes her eyes for a minute when Honey quickly gives her the gist of what happened.

I am perched on the edge of a recliner, and I try not to stare at Mrs. Wine’s hair. It is short, almost just stubble in the back, and completely gray. Her face, always pink whether underneath a dark blond sheitel or the black snood, and animated—joking with one of the boys, concerned over a story Susie is telling her, showing Honey how to do something—is gray and still.

“I’m sorry, Ima,” Honey says in a small voice. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

Mrs. Wine pushes the snood to her forehead and down to the nape of her neck, and her face comes to life again. “We will just be thankful to Hashem that we are sitting here now together,” she says. Honey leans into her, and Mrs. Wine puts her arm around her, guiding Honey’s head onto her shoulder, her other hand lightly rubbing Aaron’s back. It is quiet except for Aaron’s soft humming. I stare at the broken pieces of the old lady with the balloons and wonder if I should leave.

Then Mrs. Wine smiles at me, and her eyes light on the broken balloon. “Stuff is … really just stuff,” she sighs, like we are continuing a conversation we’ve had before. “But I suppose our stuff makes us who we are.” She moves her arm from around Honey to scratch underneath her snood for a minute before replacing it and giving Honey a squeeze.

“Those china figurines were my grandmother’s,” Mrs. Wine says after a moment. “I’ve loved this old lady with the balloons since I was a little girl and would play with her whenever I came here to my grandmother’s house. Even though we are supposed to be as tznius as we can in all ways—to be modest in our dress and our actions, to need little, to be humble—it is still important to have dignity and to have identity.”

I wonder if Miriam told Mrs. Wine about the shopping after all. Or if Honey did. I look at Mrs. Wine in her long black skirt, white shirt, and long black cardigan. She wears the same style outfit every day, like a uniform. She sighs again and looks at Honey. “But, girls, baruch Hashem, most important is that we are thankful for what we have.” Then she turns her gaze to me and smiles. “And that includes good friends.” I smile back and try to catch Honey’s eye, but her head is still on Mrs. Wine’s shoulder and her eyes are closed, her fingers idly picking at a small spot on her skirt where the denim has frayed.