“That must be nice.” I choke out a humorless chuckle. “We got married at City Hall. My family wasn’t there. Neither was his.”

“You miss ’em? Your family, I mean?”

I nod. “I was just thinking about them, what they’re doing on a Friday night. It’s the Sabbath.”

“I’m guessing they probably aren’t playing cards and going through six-packs like there’s no tomorrow?”

“No.” I smile. “You can’t even turn on the lights or cook or do much of anything on the Sabbath. When I was growing up, I thought it was the most boring day of the week. Now I realize it was the most peaceful.”

“And your family turned their backs on you?”

“At first, yes. My mother actually started calling after Ezra was born.”

“So things are getting better between you?”

“I haven’t talked to her much. We both said some awful things when she first found out about Al. I’ve been so hurt and angry I just…” I blink at tears again, recalling the scent of challah bread and fish and chicken soup Mama would serve for the Friday evening meal.

“But you miss her?” Janetta asks.

I nod, swallow, and dry Ezra with a towel.

“Then, girl, call her back. Life’s too short.” Janetta pulls Kimba from the bath. “My mama passed last year. She never got to meet this grandbaby. If your mama’s willing to put it behind you, give her a chance. Family is everything.”

Laughter erupts from the living room, shouts, raucous voices. The heavy timbre of my husband, the lighter tones of others. I prick my ears to tease out a few phrases.

“Did they just say ‘running a Boston’?” I ask, smiling and offering Janetta a towel for Kimba. “What’s that?”

“In spades, it’s when one team wins all the books.”

“What kind of books?”

“You never played spades?” Janetta asks, surprise tipping the question up at the end.

“No. I didn’t know Al played.”

But as I think about it, in New York, Al was quieter. More reserved, to himself. I grew up there, and every corner felt like home. Al grew up in Chicago, and didn’t have many friends when we first met on campus. I introduced him to my friends; none of them played spades. New York felt very much like my world. Atlanta? Even though Al didn’t grow up here, this world already feels like his.

“If Al’s running a Boston,” Janetta says with a grin, “he not only plays spades, but he must be pretty good. What do you like to play?”

“You’ll laugh,” I say, self-conscious, but still managing to smile under the warmth of her encouragement.

“Probably, but is that so bad? Child, three babies, teaching badass kids, and struggling to keep my house halfway clean, I could use a laugh.”

“I like playing mah-jongg.”

“Mah who?”