He went into the kitchen, where the children were sitting at the table, a plate of macaroni cheese in front of them. If the stew was his own favourite, then macaroni cheese was theirs. They liked to add quantities of tomato sauce—something of which Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni did not approve but that he tolerated. He had eaten strange things as a boy—things that would turn his stomach today but had seemed delicious then—raw bacon sandwiches with added sugar; pineapple dipped in golden syrup; fried bread with a thick spreading of lard; flying ants, caught on the wing, that tasted like butter and could be popped into the mouth with a satisfying crunch. It was best not to think too much of what one ate—or had as a child—thought Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni; memory blotted things out for a reason, he believed.

“So what is the mummy cooking for the daddy today?” he asked, as he slipped out of the pair of greasy suede shoes that Mma Ramotswe had been trying unsuccessfully—for years, it seemed—to replace.

Motholeli looked up from her macaroni cheese. “The mummy is cooking the daddy that special stew he likes,” she said.

“And we’re eating macaroni cheese,” chimed in Puso. “With ice cream for afters.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “So it looks like everybody is happy,” he said. “Did you say grace, Motholeli?”

She shook her head. “It’s Puso’s turn.”

He sat down at the table and looked at the young boy. “Well then, young man. Let’s hear grace before you start on your macaroni cheese.”

They lowered their heads, as did Mma Ramotswe, who laid down her stirring spoon.

“Bless this macaroni cheese,” said Puso quickly. “Amen.”

Without delay, the two children began to tackle their dinner. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni caught Mma Ramotswe’s eye, and they exchanged a grin.

“Sometimes only a few words are needed,” remarked Mma Ramotswe.

Motholeli looked up from her plate. “Least said, soonest mended.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at her encouragingly. “Where did you learn that?” she asked. “At school?”

Her mouth half full of macaroni cheese, Motholeli replied, “You said it, Mma.”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” muttered Puso, swallowing as he spoke.

“Don’t throw the first stone yourself,” retorted Motholeli mildly.

Mma Ramotswe chuckled. “So you heard me say it? Well, I suppose I might have done. It’s true, after all.”