“But it makes it right.” Rebekah studied Mother’s face, looking for some trace of the bitterness she must feel about all her years in exile—the bitterness that filled Rebekah’s heart. But then, Mother had had fifteen years to get used to what had happened to her.

Mother smiled at her. “Pillel said you were unusually wise for a child.”

“Pillel said that?”

“Well, actually he said, ‘for a girl.’”

“Was that back when he was still hoping he could get me married and out of here?”

Mother laughed. “So you don’t think he likes you, is that it?”

“Was he steward before? When you were here?”

“Yes. Face like stone. And a hard judge. But if he praises you, it counts. He said you were wise. And he said it this afternoon, while you were in your tent.”

“After I ranted at everybody.”

“I think he was trying to reassure me and Bethuel that we hadn’t created a monster.”

“Let’s not rush to judgment on that one. I’m still angry, you know. And all the other feelings. I haven’t forgiven anybody. I’m just too tired to cry any more.”

“Speaking of crying: poor Laban. He hasn’t shown his face since the wedding, either. I suppose he thinks it isn’t manly, to cry like that. But it was about things that happened to him as a child. A motherless child. That’s who was crying today, don’t you think? The child, not the man.”

“Whoever it was, it’s Laban who has to live it down,” said Rebekah. “But I’ll never goad him about it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Think of all the years I’ve missed, of the two of you together. Did you quarrel all the time?”

“Not much,” said Rebekah. “Teasing, but little quarreling. I think we clung to each other a little. Not like half the children in camp, who spend their days screaming, either from joy or rage.”

The inner curtain parted, and Father came into the front room of the tent. “I wondered why there was a cold draft,” he said. “Come inside and let the tent flap close.”

At once the conversation between women ended, and both of them sat down with Father. Rebekah took up the writing stick and began to form letters in the dirt patch. She started to apologize, and Father reached out and held her wrist. “No,” he said. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Rebekah wrote, “You didn’t hear half of what I said.”

“Believe me,” he answered, “I’ve had every word of it repeated to me since, and even though you weren’t very generous in your reading of events, you weren’t wrong, either. You never have to apologize for telling the truth.”

Rebekah snorted and wrote, “Come now, Father.”