Nechami holds back. She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t hint. Inwardly, she screams please, get them into the bath! Put them to bed!
Y
affa’le walks through the door with Avital in tow and a ringing phone in her bag.
She sheds the bag and her jacket, and asks the toddler to bring her slippers and the small water bottle from the kitchen. Avital runs, slips, wails for a moment and gets up. Her clothes are sopping wet. There’s a puddle on the kitchen floor. The ceiling is dripping. Again! Those neighbors upstairs, Hashem should help them repent for their selfish behavior, are ignoring the problem. They’re doing renovations, making a palace for themselves up there, and if other people are suffering, what do they care?
Yaffa’le scoops up Avital and presses Talk. “No, Tzippy, I can’t talk now,” she says to her manager. “Yes. I worked nine hours today. No. I haven’t had a chance to breathe. Fire me if you want. How will I pay the mortgage? I don’t know. We’ll go live in a tent. At least a tent won’t have a leaky ceiling. No, Avital, not your bottle, my bottle!”
“Hello, family.” Dudi walks in, smiling. “How’s everything?”
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