“But what if he wants his wife to be everything?” Atara said. “I think that’s what he wants”
“You can put your stuff down here,” she added, waving vaguely at the couch that separated the kitchen from the living room area; it was piled with folded laundry.
Atara shrugged and waved her phone. “All I brought,” she said quietly.
Atara slid into the barstool. Yes, Aliza thought, it was the perfect purchase. Meir couldn’t understand it — “There’s a table right here, why would someone want eat at a counter?” — and she wasn’t going to have her kids eat cereal at the “breakfast bar” or whatever you called an awkward slab of something from an early ’90’s kitchen. But the barstool was perfect for when people came by to “help” her cook.
The ground beef was mostly defrosted. Aliza stabbed it with a fork to mash it up. It was harder than she expected.
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