Jewish sex stories

The bus was crowded enough that Miriam had to turn sideways to squeeze down the aisle, clutching her handbag against her chest and murmuring apologies to the people whose knees she brushed. Outside, Jerusalem was slipping into the blue-grey light of early evening. The shops along Jaffa Road were beginning to close, and the first cool breath of autumn was finding its way between the buildings.

She found an empty seat halfway down the bus and lowered herself into it with a tired sigh.

It had been a long afternoon.

Not physically long. She had spent most of it sitting in a comfortable armchair in the apartment of Mrs. Rosenfeld, the matchmaker, drinking tea from a delicate glass and listening to the distant sounds of children playing in the courtyard below. But it had been the kind of afternoon that left a person feeling as though she had carried something heavy up a very steep hill.

And at the top of the hill, there had been nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Miriam looked down at her hands. Her fingers were plump, with short, neatly filed nails painted a pale pink. She had spent an entire hour that morning deciding what to wear. In the end, she had chosen a navy-blue skirt, a cream blouse with a small embroidered collar, and a cardigan that her mother had insisted was particularly flattering.

She had even gone to the trouble of putting on a little makeup.

Not that Mrs. Rosenfeld had noticed. Or, if she had, she hadn’t said anything.

“You’re a lovely girl, Miriam,” the matchmaker had told her, for what must have been the twentieth time in their acquaintance. “You have a good heart. You come from a wonderful family. You know how to keep a home. You’re educated, you’re sensible, you’re warm.”

Miriam could practically recite the speech along with her now.

“And?”

She had asked the question quietly, almost apologetically.

Mrs. Rosenfeld had looked down at the notebook on her lap.

“And, unfortunately, I’m having difficulty finding the right young man for you.”

The words had been delivered with such practiced gentleness that they had somehow hurt more than if the woman had simply told her the truth.

Miriam was twenty-five years old. She knew that wasn’t old. Her mother reminded her of this regularly, usually when Miriam came home from a wedding and spent the evening unusually quiet. Twenty-five was young. There was time. Plenty of time.

But Miriam had been dating since she was twenty-one, and she had never managed to get beyond a first date.

Not once.

There had been Yossi, who had spent two hours explaining the financial advantages of buying an apartment in Beit Shemesh and had subsequently told the matchmaker that he hadn’t felt a connection.

There had been Daniel, who had been perfectly pleasant until the waiter brought the dessert menu, at which point he had suddenly remembered an urgent commitment elsewhere.

There had been Avraham, who had asked her whether she exercised, then spent the rest of the evening explaining his personal fitness regime.

And there had been several others, each encounter blurring into the next: the polite greetings, the careful questions, the awkward pauses, the increasingly desperate attempts to find something interesting to say.

Every time, she had gone home wondering what she had done wrong.

Every time, she had waited for the phone call.

And every time, eventually, the message had arrived.

“He thinks you’re a wonderful girl, but he doesn’t feel it would be right to continue.”

Sometimes the matchmaker added that he was looking for someone a little different. Sometimes she didn’t bother.

Miriam knew what people meant by different.

She was short and chubby, with a round face, soft cheeks, and dark brown eyes that became almost invisible when she smiled. She wasn’t ugly. At least, she didn’t think she was ugly. She had a nice smile, thick dark hair that she wore carefully covered, and a warmth that her friends said made people feel comfortable around her.

But she wasn’t the sort of girl whose photographs made young men pause.

And in the world of shidduchim, she was beginning to suspect that a photograph could matter more than almost anything else.

She had tried losing weight. She had joined a gym for six months, gone walking in the evenings, and endured a succession of diets that left her hungry, irritable, and ashamed whenever she slipped. She had lost some weight, gained most of it back, and eventually stopped discussing the subject with her mother.

She had also tried being more confident, being less talkative, being more talkative, dressing more fashionably, dressing more traditionally, and asking her friends whether there was anything about her that she ought to change.

Her friends had all said no.

Her friends were married.

One of them had already had her second child.

Miriam swallowed and looked out of the window.

Mrs. Rosenfeld’s final words echoed in her mind.

“I don’t want to give you false hope, darling. I’ve contacted everyone I can think of. I really have. At the moment, I don’t have anyone suitable to suggest.”

Then, after a pause:

“Perhaps we should take a little break. Let things settle. Sometimes these things happen when you least expect them.”

Miriam had smiled. She had thanked the woman for all her efforts. She had even remembered to put her empty teacup on the little tray beside the armchair.

She had not cried until she was outside.

And even then, she had managed to stop herself before anyone could see.

Now, sitting on the bus, she felt the tears returning.

She blinked hard and took a deep breath.

She was not going to cry on a bus. She was a grown woman. She had a home to go to, a mother who would ask how the meeting had gone, a father who would look up hopefully from his newspaper, and a younger sister who would pretend not to notice when Miriam said that there was nothing new.

She could manage that. She had managed it dozens of times.

She reached into her handbag for a tissue.

Unfortunately, the bus lurched around a corner at precisely that moment, and her handbag slid off her lap. Its contents spilled onto the floor: her purse, a packet of tissues, a small siddur, and the notebook in which she sometimes wrote down her thoughts.

“Oh!”

She bent forward to retrieve them, but another passenger was already reaching down.

“Here you go,” said a young woman.

Miriam looked up.

The woman was about her age, perhaps twenty-four or twenty-six, and looked as though she had stepped out of a completely different Jerusalem from the one Miriam knew.

Her hair was a vivid shade of purple, cut unevenly around her jaw and shaved close above one ear. Several silver rings pierced one eyebrow, and a small stud glinted in her nose. She wore ripped black jeans, heavy black boots, a faded band T-shirt beneath a black jacket, and enough silver jewellery to make a faint jingling sound when she moved.

Her fingernails were painted black. A tattoo of what looked like a moth peeked out from beneath the sleeve of her jacket.

She was holding Miriam’s siddur.

“Your prayer book,” she said, handing it over with a small smile.

“Thank you,” Miriam murmured.

The young woman helped her gather the rest of her things, then moved her own black backpack to make room.

“You can put your bag here, if you like. It won’t fall off.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Miriam sat back, carefully rearranging her belongings. She was acutely conscious of the woman beside her, though she couldn’t have explained why. Perhaps it was the hair. Perhaps it was the piercings. Perhaps it was simply that the woman seemed entirely untroubled by the prospect of being seen in public looking exactly as she wished to look.

Miriam had spent so many years trying to become the sort of person someone might choose.

This woman appeared to have decided that she would choose herself.

The thought was so unexpected that Miriam almost smiled.

Then she remembered the notebook on her lap.

She remembered Mrs. Rosenfeld’s kind, helpless expression.

She remembered the way her mother had looked at her that morning, fussing over the collar of her blouse, and the hope in her father’s eyes whenever the telephone rang.

She remembered a wedding she had attended two weeks earlier, where she’d sat beside the bride’s cousin and listened to the woman describe how her husband had proposed.

“I just knew,” the cousin had said, blushing. “From the first date, I just knew he was the one.”

Miriam had smiled and congratulated her.

Now she wondered what it would feel like to be wanted so simply, so naturally, that you never had to wonder whether anyone would want you at all.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

She brushed it away quickly.

Another followed.

She turned toward the window, pretending to be interested in the traffic. The glass reflected the interior of the bus: tired commuters, a religious man reading from his phone, a mother bouncing a sleepy toddler on her knee, and, beside Miriam, the young woman in black with the purple hair.

Miriam pressed her lips together.

She didn’t want to make a sound. She didn’t want anyone to notice. She certainly didn’t want to explain herself to a stranger who looked as though she might have very little in common with a religious girl from a respectable Jerusalem family.

But the harder she tried to stop crying, the more impossible it became.

Her shoulders began to tremble.

She pulled a tissue from the packet and dabbed at her eyes, hoping the woman beside her would continue looking at her phone.

For a few moments, the young woman did exactly that.

Then she put the phone away.

She turned slightly toward Miriam, her expression changing as she took in the reddened eyes, the trembling hands, and the determined little smile Miriam was trying to arrange on her face.

There was no amusement in her gaze. No impatience. No suggestion that Miriam was making a fuss over nothing.

Only concern.

“Hey,” she said softly.

Miriam looked up, startled.

The young woman offered her a small, tentative smile.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry,” she said gently. “But you seem really upset.”

She paused, giving Miriam time to look away if she wanted to.

Then she asked, kindly, “What’s the matter?”
Miriam stared at the young woman beside her, clutching her damp tissue between her fingers.

For a moment, she considered saying that nothing was wrong. It was what she usually did when people asked questions that threatened to uncover something embarrassing. She would smile, say she was tired, and hope the subject changed.

But she was tired. So very tired.

“I’ve just had a difficult afternoon,” she said finally.

The young woman nodded, as though this were a perfectly reasonable thing to say and required no further explanation.

“I’m Raven, by the way.”

Miriam blinked.

“Raven?”

“Well, that’s what I call myself.” The young woman tucked a strand of purple hair behind her ear. “My parents named me Shira, which is lovely and all, but Raven suits me better. I acquired the name at seventeen, along with most of the holes in my ears.”

She turned her head to display a constellation of silver piercings.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to join a coven or sacrifice a chicken or anything.”

Despite herself, Miriam let out a small, surprised laugh.

“That’s reassuring.”

“Excellent. I was worried I’d have to work harder for my first laugh of the evening.”

Raven smiled, and Miriam noticed that she had a rather ordinary smile, really. Warm and slightly crooked, with a tiny dimple in one cheek. It was an odd contrast to the black clothes, the piercings, and the purple hair.

“So,” Raven continued, “I don’t know what’s happened, and you absolutely don’t have to tell me. But I have a suggestion.”

Miriam looked at her warily.

“At the next stop, we get off. There’s a little café around the corner. It’s kosher, it has comfortable chairs, and they make hot chocolate that could probably revive the dead.”

“Kosher?”

“Yes, kosher. I know what you’re thinking.” Raven raised both hands solemnly. “Purple hair doesn’t prevent me from knowing where to find a decent cup of tea.”

“I’m not thinking that.”

“You were absolutely thinking that.”

Miriam felt her cheeks warm.

“I wasn’t!”

“All right, you weren’t.” Raven gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Anyway, we get ourselves a hot drink, sit down, and have a powwow. You tell me as much or as little as you like. I listen. I may offer unsolicited wisdom, but you can ignore that part.”

Miriam glanced toward the window.

The next stop was approaching. Beyond it lay the familiar streets of her neighborhood, and eventually her apartment, where her mother would ask about the matchmaker and Miriam would have to explain that there was nothing to report.

She ought to go home.

She ought to preserve what remained of her dignity, wash her face, and help prepare supper.

She certainly ought not to get off a bus with a complete stranger whose name was Raven.

And yet.

The prospect of sitting alone in her room, waiting for the evening to pass, suddenly seemed unbearable.

“All right,” she heard herself say.

Raven’s eyebrows rose.

“Really?”

“Yes. A hot chocolate sounds nice.”

“Brilliant. I promise to be only moderately annoying.”

The bus pulled up to the stop. Raven stood, slung her backpack over one shoulder, and waited patiently while Miriam gathered her handbag and straightened her skirt.

As they stepped onto the pavement, Raven offered her an arm with exaggerated formality.

“Madam, your carriage awaits.”

Miriam looked at the bus disappearing into traffic.

“I think we just missed it.”

“Tragic. We’ll have to walk like peasants.”

This time, Miriam laughed properly.

It surprised her how much better it felt than the little polite laughs she’d been producing all afternoon.

They walked along the pavement together, past a greengrocer stacking crates outside his shop and a pharmacy whose fluorescent lights made the whole interior glow. Raven moved easily through the evening crowd, greeting a man selling roasted nuts and stepping aside to let a mother pass with a double stroller.

Miriam found herself stealing glances at her companion.

She had never really spoken to anyone who dressed like Raven. There had been girls with purple streaks in their hair at university, and she had occasionally seen young people in black clothes and heavy boots around the city. But those people belonged to another world, one she had been taught to regard with a mixture of concern and mild disapproval.

Raven seemed perfectly comfortable in her own skin.

Miriam wondered what that must be like.

“There it is,” Raven announced.

The café occupied the corner of a narrow street, with broad windows, wooden tables, and little lamps casting warm circles of light over the customers. A handwritten sign advertised hot chocolate, herbal teas, and homemade cakes.

There was a kosher certificate displayed beside the entrance.

Miriam’s eyes went to it automatically.

She frowned.

The café had a kosher certificate, yes, but it wasn’t from the certification authority her family normally accepted. Her parents were careful about these things, and Miriam had grown up learning that not every place calling itself kosher met the standards they followed.

She hesitated on the threshold.

Raven noticed immediately.

“Problem?”

“The supervision,” Miriam admitted. “I don’t usually eat in places with this particular certificate.”

“Ah.”

Raven didn’t roll her eyes or tell her she was being silly. She didn’t launch into a lecture about religious stringencies or ask why Miriam couldn’t just relax for once.

Instead, she peered through the window.

“Well, we’re not planning a seven-course banquet. Tea and coffee?”

Miriam considered it.

She could, of course, go somewhere else. She could insist on a café she knew, with supervision she trusted. She could thank Raven and head home.

But Raven had offered her company without asking for anything in return. She had interrupted her evening to help a stranger who was crying on a bus. The least Miriam could do was try to meet her halfway.

“I think a hot drink should be all right,” she said cautiously.

“Excellent. And if you decide you want to leave, we leave. No pressure.”

Raven opened the door.

A little bell jingled overhead as they entered.

The café smelled of cinnamon, warm milk, and freshly baked pastries. A quiet Israeli pop song played in the background. At one table, two students were bent over laptops; at another, an elderly couple shared a plate of cake. Behind the counter, a young man in a knitted kippah was arranging clean cups on a shelf.

Raven chose a table near the window, away from the speakers. She pulled out a chair for Miriam with a flourish, then dropped into the opposite seat and shrugged off her black jacket.

Without the jacket, she looked less like an apparition from a gothic novel and more like an ordinary young woman who happened to own an unusually large collection of black T-shirts.

“Right,” she said, studying the menu. “The important question. What is your preferred method of emergency emotional repair?”

Miriam smiled faintly.

“Tea, usually.”

“Respectable. What kind?”

“Chai, if they have it.”

“Excellent choice. I shall have hot chocolate. With whipped cream, because I have the soul of a Victorian orphan and the dietary habits of a five-year-old.”

Miriam giggled.

Raven looked pleased with herself.

A waiter approached with a notepad.

“Good evening. What can I get you?”

“One chai, please,” Miriam said. She paused, then added, “With milk, if you have it.”

“Certainly.”

“And a large hot chocolate,” Raven said. “Whipped cream, please. And extra marshmallows, if that’s possible.”

The waiter nodded and went to prepare their drinks.

For a moment, neither woman spoke.

Miriam wrapped her hands around the edge of the table. She was still embarrassed by her tears, and she had no idea how she was going to explain the afternoon to a stranger named Raven, who looked as though she’d wandered out of a different universe.

But the café was warm. The lights were soft. And for the first time that day, she wasn’t sitting opposite someone evaluating her suitability as a wife.

She was simply sitting opposite another woman.

Raven rested her elbows on the table and smiled at her.

“All right, Miriam,” she said gently. “Let’s start with the important stuff. Is this a family problem, a work problem, a romance problem, or one of those horrible situations where everything has gone wrong at once?”

Miriam opened her mouth to answer.

The waiter returned, setting a steaming glass of chai in front of her and a towering mug of hot chocolate, crowned with whipped cream and marshmallows, in front of Raven.

Raven wrapped both hands around her mug, inhaled appreciatively, and closed her eyes.

“Oh, that’s better,” she murmured. “Now we’re properly equipped for a powwow.”

Miriam lifted her glass, letting the warmth seep into her fingers.

For the first time in weeks, she felt that perhaps the evening might not be entirely hopeless.
Miriam took a careful sip of her chai. It was sweet, with just enough cinnamon to make it taste comforting rather than medicinal. She wrapped both hands around the glass and looked across the table at Raven, who was removing a marshmallow from her hot chocolate with the solemn concentration of a surgeon.

“So,” Raven said, swallowing. “Romance problem, then?”

Miriam gave a little, helpless laugh.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Well, you were crying on a bus, and when I offered you a hot chocolate, you looked as though I’d offered you a kidney. I’m guessing something fairly significant happened today.”

“I went to see my matchmaker.”

Raven’s expression changed. Not dramatically, but Miriam noticed that she put her spoon down.

“Your matchmaker?”

“Yes. For shidduchim. Arranged dating, I suppose you’d call it.”

“Ah.” Raven nodded. “I’ve heard of that. You meet people because somebody thinks you might be suitable for each other, rather than because you happen to bump into each other in a bar or something.”

“That’s more or less it.”

“And how did it go?”

Miriam stared into her tea.

“She has run out of people.”

Raven was silent for a moment.

“Run out?”

“Of people to suggest. She’s contacted everyone she can think of. She told me that she doesn’t have anyone suitable at the moment, and that perhaps we should take a break.”

Miriam tried to smile, as if the whole thing were faintly amusing.

“She was very kind about it. She kept telling me what a lovely girl I am. How warm and sensible I am. How I’d make a wonderful wife. And then she told me there was nobody left.”

Her voice faltered on the last word.

Raven didn’t interrupt.

Miriam looked down at her hands.

“I’m twenty-five. I know that isn’t old. Everybody tells me that. My mother says I have plenty of time, and my friends say the same thing. But they’ve all been married for years. Some of them have two children already. One of my friends is expecting her third.”

She stopped and took another sip of tea, though it had become too hot to drink comfortably.

“I haven’t even had a second date.”

Raven’s eyebrows drew together.

“Not one?”

Miriam shook her head.

“Not one. I’ve been dating for four years. I’ve met all sorts of people, and every time, it’s the same. We sit somewhere and have a perfectly pleasant conversation, and then the next day, or sometimes two days later, the matchmaker calls and tells me that the young man doesn’t think we’re suited.”

“Do they give reasons?”

“Sometimes.”

Miriam hesitated.

“Sometimes they say I’m too quiet. Or that I talk too much. One said I didn’t seem enthusiastic enough about him. Another said he thought I was a very nice girl but that he hadn’t felt a connection.”

“What does that even mean?” Raven asked.

Miriam gave a small shrug.

“I don’t know. I’ve asked myself that question quite a lot.”

She smiled faintly, but her eyes were beginning to fill.

“There was one boy who seemed to have a lovely time. We talked about books and music and our families. He made me laugh. I made him laugh. When I came home, I actually felt happy. I thought, perhaps this time…”

She stopped.

A tear fell onto the back of her hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said quickly, reaching for her tissue. “I don’t know why I’m doing this. I’m not usually so—”

“Miriam.”

Raven’s voice was gentle, but firm enough to stop her.

“You don’t have to apologize for crying.”

Miriam pressed the tissue to her eyes.

“It’s just embarrassing.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m sitting in a café crying to a complete stranger.”

“Well, technically, you’re crying to a stranger who bought you a hot chocolate.”

“You bought me a hot chocolate?”

“I bought myself a hot chocolate. You’re getting the benefit of the emotional support package.”

Miriam laughed through her tears, and Raven smiled.

“There,” Raven said. “That’s better. And for the record, I’m a very good stranger. I have excellent references.”

“From whom?”

“Two cats, a tattoo artist, and a woman who once asked me to look after her handbag in a train station. I think you’ll agree that establishes my credentials.”

Miriam laughed again. It was a small laugh, but it helped her breathe.

Raven waited until she had finished wiping her eyes before speaking again.

“So what happened with the boy who made you laugh?”

“He didn’t want a second date.”

“I’m sorry.”

Miriam nodded.

“I know it’s ridiculous to be so upset about someone I barely knew. I didn’t love him. I didn’t even know him very well. But I was so happy that evening. For once, I felt that somebody might actually like me.”

She swallowed.

“And then he didn’t.”

Raven’s face had grown very still. There was no pity in it, exactly. Something closer to attention, as though she understood that Miriam was trying to explain something important and didn’t want to miss a word.

“Can I ask you something?” Raven said.

“Of course.”

“Do you actually want to get married?”

Miriam looked up, startled.

“Of course I do!”

“Okay. I thought so. But I wanted to ask rather than assume.”

Raven took a sip of hot chocolate.

“Tell me what you want. Not what your parents want, or what your community expects, or what the matchmaker thinks would be good for you. What do you want?”

Miriam opened her mouth.

Then she closed it again.

It was a surprisingly difficult question.

“I want a home,” she said at last. “A Jewish home. I want Shabbat dinners with children running around the table. I want to make challah with my children on Friday afternoons. I want to teach them the songs my mother taught me. I want to sit with my husband after the children have gone to bed and talk about our day.”

Her face softened as she spoke. For a moment, she seemed to forget that she was talking to a stranger.

“I want somebody to ask me what I think about things. Somebody who will tell me about his work and listen when I tell him about mine. Somebody who will laugh at my jokes, even the silly ones. Somebody who’ll come home and be happy to see me.”

She paused, staring at the table.

“I want somebody who chooses me.”

The last words came out very quietly.

Raven put down her mug.

Miriam looked away, but the tears had returned, and this time she couldn’t quite stop them.

“Everybody talks about marriage as though it’s a project. You have to find the right person, and you have to be the right person, and you have to make sure that your values match and that you’re compatible and that you’ll build a good home together. I understand all of that. I really do.”

She dabbed at her eyes.

“But sometimes I think that nobody has even looked far enough to find out whether I’m a person they’d like to know.”

Raven said nothing.

“They look at my photograph. They look at my height and my weight and my family background. They hear that I’m a teacher and that I like reading, and they decide whether I fit into the picture they have in their heads.”

Miriam’s voice trembled.

“And I know that people are allowed to have preferences. I know that. I’m not saying anyone owes me a date, or that a man has to marry someone he isn’t attracted to. I wouldn’t want that. I don’t want somebody to marry me because he feels sorry for me.”

She pressed her lips together.

“I just wish someone would give me a chance.”

The words hung between them.

Outside, a bus rumbled past the window. Two young men in white shirts hurried along the pavement, one of them carrying a plastic bag full of groceries. At the next table, a student burst into laughter at something on her laptop.

Life continued around them, indifferent to the small heartbreak unfolding in the corner of the café.

Raven reached for a napkin and slid it across the table.

Miriam took it with a whispered thank-you.

“There’s something else,” she said after a while.

“Go on.”

“I’m fat.”

Raven blinked, not expecting the bluntness.

Miriam gave a miserable little smile.

“Well, I am. I’m chubby, and I know it. I’m not blind. I see what I look like in photographs. I see the girls who get lots of suggestions. They’re slim and pretty, and they know how to dress, and they look wonderful in the pictures their friends post from weddings.”

She looked down at herself.

“I’ve tried losing weight. I really have. I joined a gym, and I went three times a week. I tried diets. I’ve counted calories until I wanted to scream. Sometimes I lose a bit, and then I gain it back. Sometimes I get so hungry that I can’t concentrate on anything else. And all the while, I keep thinking that if I could just get smaller, perhaps somebody would finally want me.”

She began to cry again, quietly and helplessly.

“And I hate that I think that way. I hate it. I don’t want to spend my whole life believing that I have to make myself smaller before I’m allowed to be loved.”

Raven’s jaw tightened slightly, but she didn’t rush to contradict her.

Miriam continued, the words coming more quickly now, as though a dam had finally broken.

“My mother tells me I’m beautiful. My father tells me I’ll make somebody a wonderful wife. My friends tell me that the right person will come along. But none of them can tell me when. And none of them can tell me what I’m supposed to do in the meantime.”

She wiped her face.

“Every time somebody gets engaged, I am genuinely happy for them. I go to their weddings and dance and give them presents, and I mean every good wish I give them. But then I come home and take off my wedding clothes and sit on my bed, and I wonder why it hasn’t happened for me.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Sometimes I feel as though I’m standing outside a house, watching everybody else live their lives through the windows.”

Raven was quiet for a long time.

She didn’t tell Miriam that she was beautiful. She didn’t say that everything happened for a reason, or that God had a plan, or that Miriam simply needed to stop worrying and trust the process.

Perhaps she knew that Miriam had already heard all those things.

Instead, she picked up her mug, took a small sip, and set it down again.

“That sounds terribly lonely,” she said.

Miriam looked at her.

Something about those four words undid her more thoroughly than all the advice she’d received over the years.

“Yes,” she whispered. “It is.”

She covered her face with her hands.

For a little while, she cried without trying to disguise it. Her shoulders shook, and occasionally she made a small, embarrassed sound, but Raven didn’t look away. She didn’t check her phone. She didn’t glance toward the counter to see whether anyone was watching.

She simply stayed.

Once, she quietly pushed the tissue packet closer. When Miriam’s tea cooled, she asked whether she’d like another. When Miriam apologized yet again, Raven shook her head and said, “You really have to stop paying me in apologies. I’m not accepting that currency.”

And when Miriam finally lifted her head, red-eyed and exhausted, Raven was still there, her purple hair catching the warm light from the little lamp.

“I’m sorry,” Miriam murmured one last time. “I’ve been talking for ages. You probably have somewhere to be.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“Nope.”

“But surely you have friends, or plans, or—”

“Miriam, I was on a bus going home. My evening plans consisted of reheating leftovers and watching a documentary about shipwrecks. You’re not depriving me of anything.”

Miriam managed a small smile.

“Shipwrecks?”

“I contain multitudes.”

For a moment, they both laughed.

Then Raven leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on the table.

“Listen,” she said. “I don’t know you very well yet. I can’t promise you that you’ll meet somebody next week, or next month, or that this whole shidduch business is suddenly going to become easy. And I’m not going to insult you by pretending that people never judge each other on appearances.”

Miriam listened, her fingers curled around her glass.

“But I want you to understand something. The fact that these men haven’t wanted a second date doesn’t mean that there’s something fundamentally wrong with you. It means that those particular dates didn’t lead to a relationship. That’s painful enough without turning it into a verdict on your entire existence.”

Miriam’s eyes filled again, but she didn’t look away.

Raven gave her a small, crooked smile.

“And you don’t have to earn the right to be treated as a person by losing weight, becoming more fashionable, or learning how to perform the perfect first date.”

She paused.

“You already are a person, Miriam. You’re allowed to take up space.”

Miriam looked at the young woman across the table: the black clothes, the silver rings, the purple hair, the face that seemed so different from the faces she saw at synagogue and family gatherings.

She had expected to be judged by this stranger. She had expected awkward questions, perhaps a little amusement at her distress, perhaps some well-meaning advice about getting out more.

She had not expected to be listened to.

And she certainly had not expected to feel, for the first time that day, that she could breathe.

She reached for her tea and discovered that her hands were no longer trembling.

“Thank you, Raven,” she said.

Raven raised her mug in a small toast.

“You’re welcome.”

Miriam took a sip.

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she asked the question that had been hovering at the back of her mind ever since they sat down.

“Can I ask you something, too?”

“Anything.”

Miriam glanced at Raven’s piercings, then at the purple hair.

“How did you become so comfortable being yourself?”

For the first time that evening, Raven’s smile faded into something more thoughtful.

She looked down at her hands.

“Ah,” she said softly. “That’s a much longer story.”

Raven looked at the purple-painted nails wrapped around her mug.

For the first time since Miriam had met her, she seemed uncertain what to say.

“It’s funny,” she said eventually. “People always assume I left because I was angry.”

“Were you?”

“No. Not really.”

She turned her mug slowly between her palms, watching the whipped cream melt into the hot chocolate.

“I grew up in an Orthodox family. Not Hasidic, not particularly modern either. Somewhere in the middle. We lived in Jerusalem, we kept Shabbat, we ate kosher, we went to shul. My father learned in the evenings, my mother lit candles every Friday, and I went to a Bais Yaakov school.”

She paused.

“I was a pretty good religious girl, actually. I knew all the songs. I knew how to behave at the Shabbat table. I could read Hebrew fluently, and I could tell you which blessings to say over practically anything you put in front of me.”

Miriam smiled.

“I know that feeling.”

“I thought you might.”

Raven smiled back.

“My family wasn’t horrible. I need you to understand that. My parents loved me. They still love me. There was no great scandal, no terrible abuse, no moment when I slammed a door and announced that I was never coming back.”

She looked out through the window at the passing traffic.

“It was much more boring than that.”

“Boring?”

“Painfully boring. The kind of thing that happens so slowly you don’t realise anything is changing until one day you look around and discover that you’re standing somewhere completely different.”

She took a sip of her drink.

“When I was little, I believed in God because everyone I knew believed in God. It wasn’t really a question. God was as much a part of the world as gravity, except that gravity was what kept the furniture on the floor and God was the one who had given us the Torah.”

Miriam laughed softly.

“That sounds familiar.”

“And then, when I was about thirteen, I started asking questions. Nothing dramatic. I wanted to know why certain things were the way they were. Why this interpretation of a verse was accepted and another wasn’t. Why some rabbis disagreed about one thing but seemed completely certain about another. Why the answer to some questions was that there were different opinions, and the answer to others was that I shouldn’t be asking the question in the first place.”

“That can be frustrating,” Miriam admitted.

“Especially when you’re thirteen and you genuinely want to understand.”

Raven’s expression grew distant.

“I remember one particular lesson. We were learning about the world to come, and I asked how we knew it existed. The teacher explained that the Torah told us about it, and that we trusted the Torah because it came from God.”

“And how did you know the Torah came from God?” Miriam asked.

“Exactly.”

Raven grinned.

“I wasn’t trying to be clever. I really wasn’t. I was just trying to follow the argument. But we went round in a circle, and eventually the teacher told me that some things required emunah.”

Miriam nodded slowly.

“Faith.”

“Yes. And that was a perfectly understandable answer, in a way. I know that. You can’t necessarily prove every basic assumption from some more fundamental assumption without eventually running out of ground to stand on.”

Raven gave her a curious look.

“I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“I’m studying to be a teacher,” Miriam said. “I spend a lot of time thinking about how people learn things.”

“Well, there you go. My religious education has finally paid off. I’ve found someone who understands epistemology over hot chocolate.”

Miriam laughed.

“But,” Raven continued, “I started noticing that I was being asked to have faith in things that didn’t seem to have much evidence behind them. And I couldn’t work out why I was supposed to regard that particular kind of faith as a virtue.”

She rubbed a thumb along the handle of her mug.

“I kept waiting for the moment when everything would click. I thought perhaps I’d get older and understand what the rabbis meant. Perhaps I’d learn more Gemara, read more Jewish philosophy, understand the arguments properly. Maybe then I’d feel that certainty everyone seemed to have.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

The answer was simple, without bitterness.

“I learnt more. I read Rambam. I read bits of the Guide for the Perplexed, although some of it went over my head. I learnt about arguments for God’s existence. I read about the problem of evil. I even got interested in science, which turned out to be rather inconvenient for my religious certainty.”

“Inconvenient how?”

“Because the more I learnt about the universe, the less it seemed to need the explanations I’d been given as a child. Not because science had disproved every possible conception of God. I know better than that now. But because I could no longer see why I needed to assume that there was a divine intelligence behind everything.”

She looked at Miriam.

“And once I began to question that, other things started to look different too. Prayer. Revelation. Miracles. The idea that God had chosen one people and given them a particular set of laws.”

Miriam’s fingers tightened around her glass.

“Did you stop believing all at once?”

“No. That’s the thing. I don’t think there was ever a day when I stopped believing.”

Raven considered this.

“I just noticed that I was no longer really believing. I’d say the prayers because I knew them. I’d go to shul because that was what we did. I’d make Kiddush because my father passed me the cup. But somewhere along the way, I stopped expecting any of it to connect me to a supernatural being.”

“That must have been frightening.”

“Sometimes. Mostly it was confusing.”

Raven smiled a little.

“I remember sitting in shul one Shabbat when I was sixteen. Everyone was singing Lecha Dodi, and the sunlight was coming through the windows, and the whole room was beautiful. I felt something. A kind of peace, I suppose. I remember thinking, ‘This is what religious people mean when they say they feel God’s presence.’”

She paused.

“And then I thought, ‘Or perhaps I just like singing with people I love in a beautiful room.’”

Miriam looked down at her tea.

“That doesn’t mean the feeling wasn’t real,” she said quietly.

Raven’s eyes returned to hers.

“No. It doesn’t.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“That was something I had to learn,” Raven continued. “I thought that if I stopped believing in God, I’d have to stop caring about everything that had mattered to me. That I’d have to decide my childhood was a lie, or that my parents were foolish, or that all the people who’d ever prayed sincerely were deluded.”

She shook her head.

“But I didn’t think any of those things. My parents were sincere. My grandparents were sincere. My childhood was real. The songs were beautiful. Shabbat dinners were beautiful. My mother lighting candles was beautiful. None of that stopped being true just because I wasn’t sure there was anybody listening to the prayers.”

Miriam was silent.

She could understand that. Perhaps more than she wanted to admit.

“So you left?” she asked.

“Eventually.”

“Was it difficult?”

“Leaving the practical side of it was difficult. Leaving the belief itself was almost anticlimactic. By the time I admitted to myself that I was an atheist, I’d been living as though I were one for a while.”

Raven took another sip of her drink.

“Telling my parents was harder. They were worried. They thought I’d been hurt by somebody, or that I’d fallen in with bad influences, or that I’d come back to religion once I grew up a bit.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

Raven smiled without any triumph.

“I grew up a bit. Then I grew up some more. I still didn’t believe.”

“What about your family now?”

“We have our awkward moments. My father sometimes asks whether I’m absolutely certain, which is an interesting question to ask someone about something they don’t believe exists. My mother worries about what will happen to me when I die, which is rather sweet if you think about it.”

“Do you still see them?”

“Of course. I go for Friday-night dinner sometimes. I don’t eat everything they eat, because I’m not going to pretend to believe in kashrut when I don’t, but I respect their kitchen. I bring food I know they’re comfortable with, and we get on with it.”

Miriam stared at her.

“You can do that?”

“Well, yes. Why not?”

“I don’t know.” Miriam looked embarrassed. “I suppose I always imagined that leaving religion meant you had to leave everything behind.”

“Some people do. Some families make it very difficult to stay. But I didn’t want to cut my parents out of my life, and they didn’t want to cut me out of theirs. We had to work out how to be a family when we no longer agreed about the most important things.”

Raven shrugged.

“It’s not always easy, but it’s worth it.”

She reached for a marshmallow that had survived in the bottom of her mug.

“Anyway, that was the atheism part. The purple hair came later.”

Miriam laughed.

“I was wondering about that.”

“Obviously.”

Raven settled back in her chair.

“When I first left, I spent a lot of time trying to work out what I was supposed to become. I’d spent my whole life in a world where there were clear expectations. There were things you wore, things you ate, things you believed, things you were supposed to want. Even when I was questioning everything, I still knew where I fitted.”

She glanced at Miriam’s neatly arranged hair covering and modest blouse.

“I imagine you understand that.”

“I do,” Miriam said.

“Then suddenly I was outside it. I didn’t believe in God, but I wasn’t particularly interested in becoming one of those people who spends all their time explaining why religious people are stupid. I didn’t hate Judaism. I didn’t hate religious people. I just couldn’t honestly say I believed any more.”

She drummed her black-painted fingernails lightly against the mug.

“And I discovered that the secular world has its own expectations. You’re supposed to be sensible. You should get a degree, find a job, dress reasonably, date, have a social life, and perhaps go travelling somewhere expensive. You can believe whatever you like, provided you don’t make things too awkward at dinner parties.”

“That sounds rather familiar too,” Miriam said, surprising herself.

Raven pointed at her.

“Exactly! Humans are very good at inventing rules for each other.”

“So where did the witchcraft come in?”

Raven’s whole face brightened.

“Ah. Now we’re getting to the interesting bit.”

She leaned forward, lowering her voice as though about to reveal a state secret.

“I was nineteen. I’d moved out of my parents’ home and was sharing a flat with two other girls. One of them had a collection of books about witchcraft. Properly witchy books, with moon phases, herbs, candles, crystals, little diagrams of circles, the whole aesthetic.”

“Were you interested in witchcraft?”

“Not at first. I thought it was nonsense.”

Miriam raised an eyebrow.

“You thought witchcraft was nonsense?”

“I was an atheist! I thought the supernatural was nonsense generally. Why would I make an exception for witches?”

Miriam giggled.

“But,” Raven continued, “I thought it was beautiful. I liked the imagery. The old stories. The idea of women gathering together in the woods under the moon. The folklore, the symbolism, the history of people who’d been accused of witchcraft because they didn’t fit into the world around them.”

“That does sound rather romantic.”

“It does, doesn’t it? Especially when you’re a lonely nineteen-year-old who has just discovered that you can buy black lace clothing without anybody asking whether you’re going to a funeral.”

Miriam laughed so suddenly that she nearly spilled her tea.

“Sorry,” Raven said, not sounding remotely sorry. “But you see what I mean.”

“I do.”

“And then I found an online group of people who were interested in modern witchcraft. I started going to their meet-ups. I met women who dressed like me, who liked the same music, who read the same books. Women who could spend an entire evening discussing the symbolism of ravens, or whether a particular shade of purple was more appropriate for a protection ritual.”

“Is it?”

“Depends on the raven.”

Miriam shook her head, smiling.

“Eventually, someone invited me to a gathering of their coven.”

“A coven,” Miriam repeated.

“Yes. I know how that sounds.”

“How does it sound?”

“Like something from a horror film. There should probably be a thunderstorm and a suspicious goat.”

“Do you have a suspicious goat?”

“Sadly, no. Budget constraints.”

Miriam laughed again.

Raven seemed delighted. It was clear that she enjoyed making people laugh, and Miriam began to suspect that the humour was not merely a way of entertaining others. Perhaps it was how Raven made unfamiliar situations less frightening, how she gave people permission to relax around someone who looked very different from them.

“So what do you do?” Miriam asked. “In the coven?”

Raven considered her answer.

“Mostly? We drink tea.”

“Tea?”

“An astonishing amount of tea. We also eat biscuits, complain about work, exchange recommendations for books, and help each other choose outfits. Occasionally someone brings tarot cards, and we talk about what the pictures might mean. We have seasonal gatherings, decorate things, light candles, and sometimes do little rituals.”

“But do you actually believe the rituals work?”

Raven smiled.

“Not in the sense that I think the universe is going to rearrange itself because I’ve drawn a circle on the floor and said some words. I’m not secretly a believer in magic. But rituals can be meaningful without being supernatural. Lighting a candle can help you mark a moment. Saying something aloud can help you understand what you’re feeling. Gathering with people who care about you can make you feel less alone.”

She paused.

“And I don’t need to believe in magic to appreciate the atmosphere. Have you ever seen a group of women dressed in velvet and lace, sitting around a table covered in candles, talking about the moon?”

“No.”

“It’s fabulous.”

Miriam laughed.

“I can imagine.”

“And the best part is that nobody tells me I’m doing womanhood incorrectly. Nobody tells me that my clothes are too strange, or that my interests are unfeminine, or that I need to make myself more acceptable before I’m allowed to belong.”

She said it casually, but Miriam noticed the little emphasis on the last word.

“That’s what I found,” Raven continued. “A group of people who were happy to have me there. Some of them believe in the spiritual side of witchcraft. Some are into it as a religion. Some are basically atheists who enjoy the folklore and the social life. We don’t all agree about what any of it means.”

“And that’s all right?”

“Yes. Imagine that! People gathering together without requiring everybody to have identical metaphysical opinions.”

Miriam gave a thoughtful smile.

“I suppose there are Jewish communities like that, too.”

“Of course. I’m not saying the witches invented friendship.”

“No, but—”

“But what?”

Miriam hesitated.

“Nothing. I was just thinking.”

Raven waited.

Miriam looked at the little lamp on the table, then at the candles flickering behind the counter.

“I think I understand why you liked it,” she said eventually. “Not necessarily the witchcraft itself, but the freedom to decide what things mean to you.”

Raven’s expression softened.

“Yes. Exactly.”

She reached across the table and nudged Miriam’s hand lightly with one finger.

“And that’s why I asked you how you felt about being yourself. Because I spent a long time thinking that I had to find the correct answer to the question of who I was. The correct religion, the correct clothes, the correct beliefs. Eventually I realised that I could just… be a person. I could work things out as I went along.”

She withdrew her hand and wrapped it around her mug again.

“I don’t have to prove that I’m a good atheist. I don’t have to prove that I’m a proper witch. And I don’t have to prove that I’m a good woman by looking a certain way or wanting the things other people want.”

Miriam stared at her.

A few hours ago, she had been sitting in a matchmaker’s apartment, listening to a woman explain that there was nobody left to suggest for her. She had been thinking about her weight, her age, her appearance, and all the ways she might need to change before somebody would consider choosing her.

Now she was sitting opposite a woman who had deliberately stepped outside the expectations of her community and somehow found a place where she belonged.

Miriam didn’t know whether she agreed with Raven about God. She didn’t know what she thought about witchcraft, or whether she could imagine ever wearing black boots and silver rings and purple hair.

But she found herself wishing she could borrow some of Raven’s ease.

“Can I ask you something a little personal?” Raven said.

Miriam nodded.

“Do you like yourself?”

The question was so unexpected that Miriam almost laughed.

“What?”

“Do you like yourself? Not whether you think you’re good enough to get married. Not whether your family thinks you’re a good girl. Not whether men like your photographs. Do you, Miriam, like being Miriam?”

Miriam looked down at her tea.

For a long time, she didn’t answer.

Then she said, very quietly, “I’m not sure I know how to do that.”

Raven nodded as though Miriam had given her a perfectly sensible answer.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I didn’t know how to do it at nineteen, either.”

She lifted her mug, discovered it was empty, and peered into it with theatrical disappointment.

“Well. This is a serious problem.”

Miriam smiled.

“What is?”

“We’ve run out of hot chocolate. And I have a feeling that your story isn’t finished yet.”

She looked at Miriam with a warm, mischievous expression.

“Shall we order another round?”

By the time they left the café, Jerusalem had settled into the soft darkness of an autumn evening.

Raven insisted on paying for her own hot chocolate, despite Miriam’s polite protests that she had already imposed on her enough.

“You haven’t imposed on me,” Raven said, pulling on her black jacket. “I’ve had a lovely evening. I got to meet someone new, drink an unreasonable quantity of chocolate, and discuss the philosophical implications of witchcraft. That’s practically a perfect Tuesday.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Even better. I’m ahead of schedule.”

Miriam laughed as they stepped outside.

The air was cool, and the pavement still held a little warmth from the afternoon sun. They walked without any particular destination, following a quiet street until Raven suggested they cut through a small public garden nearby. It wasn’t a particularly grand park, just a green space with a few winding paths, benches beneath old trees, and flowerbeds that someone had clearly taken great pride in maintaining.

A couple of teenagers sat on a low wall sharing earphones. An elderly man walked a small dog. Somewhere in the darkness, a sprinkler clicked rhythmically.

Raven chose a bench beneath a tree and sat down, stretching her legs in front of her.

“Right,” she said. “We’ve discussed my dubious spiritual career. Now I want to return to something you said.”

Miriam sat beside her, smoothing her skirt.

“What did I say?”

“That you weren’t sure you knew how to like yourself.”

Miriam’s smile faded a little.

“Oh.”

“That sounded important.”

“It probably was.”

Raven waited.

Miriam watched a leaf tumble across the path.

“I don’t think I dislike myself all the time,” she said eventually. “There are things I like about myself. I think I’m a good teacher. I’m good with children. I can be funny, when I’m not nervous. My friends come to me when they have problems, because I listen.”

“Those are all good things.”

“I know.”

She folded her hands in her lap.

“But I think I’ve started seeing everything about myself through the question of whether somebody would want to marry me.”

Raven turned towards her.

“Everything?”

“Almost everything. If I cook something nice, I think about whether I’d be good at running a home. If I buy a new blouse, I wonder whether it makes me look thinner. If I read a book, I sometimes think about whether it’s something I could talk about on a date.”

She gave a small, embarrassed laugh.

“Even when I exercise, I’m thinking about becoming the sort of woman somebody might choose.”

Raven was quiet for a moment.

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

Miriam drew her cardigan more closely around herself.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to get married. I really do want to get married. I want children, and a home, and all those things I told you about. I don’t want to pretend that I don’t care about them.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I think I’ve made getting married into a kind of examination. Every day, I’m trying to become someone who deserves to pass. And every time a date doesn’t work out, I feel as though I’ve failed.”

She swallowed.

“I’ve started looking at myself through the eyes of imaginary men. I imagine what they’d think of my clothes, my body, my personality. Sometimes I catch myself doing it when I’m alone in my bedroom.”

Raven leaned back against the bench.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Please.”

“I think there’s a difference between wanting to become a better version of yourself and treating yourself like a defective product.”

Miriam turned to look at her.

“A defective product?”

“Yes. Something that needs to be redesigned until a buyer finally comes along.”

Raven shrugged.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to spend your whole life preparing to be selected by someone else. You get to have a life before you meet your husband. You get to enjoy it. You get to be a person whose existence isn’t just a waiting room for marriage.”

Miriam felt a little ache behind her ribs.

“I know you’re right,” she whispered. “At least, I think I know you’re right. But I don’t know how to stop.”

“Perhaps you don’t have to stop all at once.”

Raven tucked her hands into her jacket pockets.

“Maybe you could start by doing a few things just because they make you happy. Things that don’t improve your marriage prospects. Things that don’t make you more useful, or more attractive, or more suitable for anything.”

“Such as what?”

“Well.” Raven’s eyes gleamed. “I have some ideas.”

Miriam smiled cautiously.

“Should I be worried?”

“Almost certainly.”

Raven began with the easiest suggestion.

“Buy yourself some nice underwear.”

Miriam stared at her.

“Underwear?”

“Yes. Underwear.”

“But I have underwear.”

“I assumed so. I’m not suggesting you wander around Jerusalem without any.”

Miriam laughed despite herself.

“You know what I mean,” Raven said. “What sort do you buy?”

“The usual sort.”

“Define usual.”

Miriam hesitated.

“Plain cotton. White, beige, perhaps black. Comfortable.”

“Good. Comfortable is important. I’m not proposing that you abandon the concept of comfort. But when was the last time you bought something because you thought it was pretty?”

Miriam thought about it.

She could remember buying a new set of underwear six months earlier, when the elastic in some of her old pairs had begun to wear out. She had bought a multipack of plain cotton briefs in three colours. They were practical, affordable, and perfectly adequate.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“Exactly. So here’s my suggestion. Next time you go shopping, find a shop that sells women’s underwear and look at the things you would normally walk past. Soft modal fabric. A pretty colour. Lace trim, if you like lace. Something in a rich burgundy, or dark green, or a lovely dusty rose.”

Miriam looked down at her navy skirt.

“Lace?”

“Only if you like it. I’m not trying to turn you into a Victorian boudoir scene.”

“Raven!”

“What? I’m being tasteful.”

Miriam burst out laughing.

Raven grinned.

“Listen. I’m not suggesting anything revealing, or uncomfortable, or inconsistent with what you believe. Nobody else even needs to know what you’re wearing underneath your clothes. That’s the point.”

She spoke more gently now.

“You spend so much time thinking about how other people see you. I want you to experience the idea of doing something nice for yourself that nobody else has to see, approve of, or reward you for.”

Miriam was quiet.

There was something strangely appealing about the idea. She had always treated underwear as a practical necessity, something to be bought when needed and forgotten about afterwards. The notion of choosing a pretty colour simply because she liked it seemed almost frivolous.

And yet, she realised, she had never actually given herself permission to be frivolous.

“I could do that,” she said slowly.

“Good. But there’s a rule.”

“What rule?”

“You don’t buy anything that digs into you, pinches you, or makes you spend the entire day adjusting it. Pretty is not a synonym for uncomfortable. If you find something beautiful and comfortable, wonderful. If you don’t, you go home with your money and try again another time.”

Miriam nodded seriously.

“That seems reasonable.”

“I’m full of reasonable advice. It’s one of my least marketable qualities.”

“Next,” Raven continued, “body care.”

Miriam immediately became suspicious.

“I shower every day.”

“Excellent. We have established the foundations of civilisation.”

“And I use moisturiser sometimes.”

“Even better. But I don’t mean you need to spend half your salary on fancy products or acquire a twelve-step skincare routine.”

Raven held up a finger.

“I’m talking about little rituals. Things that make you feel comfortable in your own body.”

She began counting on her fingers.

“A warm shower when you have time, rather than rushing through it because you have seventeen other things to do. A nice body lotion that smells of something you enjoy. Taking a few minutes to brush your hair properly. Keeping your nails neat, or painting them if that’s something you’d enjoy. A foot soak after a long day of teaching.”

“Painting my nails?”

“Clear polish. A soft pink. A deep red, if you feel adventurous. Or no polish at all. I’m not your personal beauty dictator.”

Miriam smiled.

“I usually keep them short and unpainted.”

“Nothing wrong with that. But have you ever wanted to paint them?”

Miriam looked at her hands.

She had once seen a woman at the supermarket with dark burgundy nails and thought they looked beautiful. She had immediately dismissed the thought of trying the colour herself. It wasn’t that nail polish was forbidden in her community. Plenty of Orthodox women wore it. It simply hadn’t seemed like something Miriam would do.

“I’ve thought about it,” she admitted.

“Then perhaps you could try it. Not because it’ll make your hands look more attractive to a potential husband. Not because anyone will notice. Just because you might enjoy looking down at your fingers and seeing a colour you like.”

Raven paused.

“And please don’t turn this into another project in which you have to achieve perfect skin, perfect hair, and perfect nails by some arbitrary deadline. The idea is to enjoy taking care of yourself, not to give yourself another list of ways to fail.”

Miriam nodded.

That, she thought, might be the most important part.

She had tried so many improvement programmes that had begun with enthusiasm and ended with disappointment. Every new routine became another test of her discipline, another opportunity to discover that she wasn’t quite the person she ought to be.

Perhaps this could be different.

“What else?” she asked.

Raven looked delighted.

“Oh, you’re taking notes mentally. Excellent.”

“Clothes,” Raven said.

Miriam glanced down at her blouse.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Absolutely nothing. You’re nicely dressed. That’s not what I mean.”

Raven gestured towards her.

“Do you ever buy something because you love it? Not because your mother says it suits you, or because it’s slimming, or because it’s the sort of thing a respectable young woman should wear?”

Miriam considered this.

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“I bought a scarf last winter because I liked the colour.”

“What colour?”

“Teal.”

“Lovely. Do you wear it?”

“Not very often.”

“Why not?”

Miriam thought about that, too.

“I suppose it doesn’t go with very much.”

Raven turned to her slowly.

“Miriam.”

“What?”

“Is it possible that you bought a scarf in a colour you love and then decided not to wear it because you didn’t own enough other things to match it?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds silly.”

“It sounds like something a perfectly sensible person might do. But you could also buy a blouse that goes with the scarf. Or wear the scarf with something that doesn’t match perfectly but makes you happy.”

Miriam laughed.

“I can’t imagine explaining that to my mother.”

“You don’t have to explain it. You can simply wear the scarf.”

Raven leaned forward.

“Look, I’m not telling you to dress in a way that makes you uncomfortable in your community. I know you have standards of modesty that matter to you. I’m not asking you to abandon them. But modesty doesn’t have to mean erasing your personality.”

Miriam thought of her wardrobe. Rows of skirts in navy, black, brown, and grey. Blouses in cream, white, and pale blue. Cardigans chosen for versatility. Everything suitable. Everything respectable. Everything reasonably flattering.

She liked some of her clothes. But she had often chosen them because they were safe.

“I would like to wear more colour,” she said, almost surprised to hear herself say it.

“Then wear more colour!”

“I like green.”

“Excellent.”

“And teal.”

“Even better.”

“And I saw a skirt in a shop last week that was a lovely shade of plum, but I didn’t buy it because I wasn’t sure it would suit me.”

Raven looked at her with exaggerated seriousness.

“Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to try on the plum skirt.”

“What if it looks terrible?”

“Then you take it off and try something else. We are not conducting a military operation.”

Miriam laughed so hard that a couple walking past the bench turned to look at them.

She didn’t mind.

They sat quietly for a little while, watching the park.

Miriam was beginning to feel lighter. Not happy, exactly. The problems she had described hadn’t disappeared, and she still had no idea when she might meet someone. But she no longer felt quite so trapped inside them.

Raven broke the silence.

“There’s one more thing I’d suggest.”

Miriam turned towards her.

“All right.”

“Something you do every week that has absolutely nothing to do with finding a husband.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Go to a bookshop and browse. Take a walk somewhere beautiful. Learn something you’ve always wanted to learn. Join a class, if there’s one you fancy. Spend an afternoon reading a novel without thinking about whether it’s improving your character.”

Miriam smiled.

“I read plenty of novels.”

“Wonderful. Then you’re halfway there. But do you ever read one simply because you want to know what happens next?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Do more of that.”

Raven nudged her gently with her shoulder.

“And perhaps find a friend who enjoys doing things with you without every conversation turning into a discussion of shidduchim.”

Miriam’s smile became a little sadder.

“My friends are lovely. But most of them are married now. They’re busy with their husbands and children.”

“Of course they are. That doesn’t mean you can’t make new friends. Single friends, married friends, older friends, younger friends. People who like you because you’re Miriam, not because they think they might know someone suitable for you.”

Miriam looked at her.

“Like you?”

Raven blinked.

Then her face broke into a broad smile.

“Well, I was trying to be subtle, but yes. Like me.”

Miriam felt something warm rise in her chest.

“I’d like that.”

“Good. Then we shall have to arrange another meeting. Perhaps one involving books, or cake, or a particularly interesting selection of nail polish.”

“You really do like nail polish.”

“I have strong opinions about it. It’s one of the pillars of my spiritual practice.”

Miriam shook her head, laughing.

They eventually stood and began walking towards the park entrance.

At the gate, Miriam stopped.

“Raven?”

“Yes?”

“I want to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you think I’m being ridiculous? Getting so upset about not finding someone?”

Raven’s expression softened.

“No. I think you’re lonely. I think you want something important, and you’re frightened that you might not get it. I think you’ve spent a long time trying to be good enough for people who haven’t even given themselves the chance to know you.”

Miriam swallowed.

“And I think it’s perfectly reasonable to be sad about that.”

She paused.

“But I also think that your life belongs to you right now. Not to your future husband. Not to your matchmaker. Not to the imaginary young men you’ve been imagining judging your clothes and your body.”

Raven took a step closer.

“You don’t have to stop wanting marriage. You don’t have to stop looking. You don’t have to pretend you’re perfectly happy being single. But you can also start living now.”

Miriam felt her eyes grow damp again.

“How do you make it sound so simple?”

“Oh, it isn’t simple. I spent years figuring it out, and I still get things wrong all the time. But I think it helps to start small.”

She smiled.

“Buy the underwear. Wear the teal scarf. Paint your nails if you want to. Put on your favourite lotion after a shower. Do things that make you feel at home in your own body.”

Raven’s voice became quieter.

“And when you look in the mirror, try not to ask whether a man would want to marry the woman looking back at you. Just ask whether you can be kind to her.”

Miriam stood very still.

She had spent years looking in mirrors and evaluating herself. Was her face too round? Was her blouse flattering? Did her skirt make her look shorter? Did she look like someone a young man might be pleased to introduce to his parents?

She had never thought to ask whether she could be kind to the person looking back.

“I think I’d like to try that,” she said.

“Good.”

“But I don’t know if I’ll be very good at it.”

“You don’t have to be good at it. You just have to begin.”

They reached the pavement. The city was still busy, but the evening had grown cooler, and Miriam pulled her cardigan around herself.

She looked at Raven, with her purple hair and her silver piercings and her black clothes. Earlier that afternoon, she might have crossed the street to avoid someone who looked so different from her. She might have assumed that they had nothing to say to one another.

Now she found herself wondering how many other people she had dismissed without ever knowing them.

“Can I tell you something?” Miriam asked.

“Please.”

“I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?”

“The things you suggested. Not all at once. I don’t want to turn it into another list of things I have to accomplish.”

“Very wise.”

“But I’m going to buy something pretty. And I’m going to wear my teal scarf. And perhaps I’ll try painting my nails.”

Raven beamed.

“Excellent.”

“And I’m going to try to take better care of myself. Not because I think it will help me get a date. Not because I want to become thinner or more attractive or more suitable for somebody.”

Miriam took a breath.

“Because I’m tired of treating myself as though I’m only valuable if somebody else wants me.”

Raven’s smile became gentler.

“That’s a very good reason.”

Miriam glanced down at her hands, then back up at her new friend.

“And perhaps next time we meet, you can help me choose the nail polish.”

“Darling, I would consider that an honour.”

They both laughed.

At the corner where their paths diverged, they exchanged telephone numbers. Raven insisted on entering herself into Miriam’s phone as Raven 🖤, then demanded that Miriam send her a message immediately so that they would both have each other’s details.

Miriam did so.

Her phone buzzed a second later.

Raven 🖤: Homework assignment. Buy something pretty. Wear the teal scarf. Be nice to yourself. No grades will be awarded.

Miriam smiled at the screen.

“Thank you,” she said again.

Raven waved a hand.

“Go home, Miriam. Have a nice cup of tea. And don’t let your mother interrogate you about the matchmaker until you’ve had something to eat.”

“How did you know she would?”

“Because mothers are an international conspiracy.”

Miriam laughed, then turned towards the bus stop.

She was still twenty-five. She was still single. She was still chubby, still Orthodox, still living in Jerusalem, and still had no idea whether she would meet a husband next month, next year, or later.

Nothing about her circumstances had changed.

But as she walked home, she began thinking about the plum-coloured skirt in the shop window, and the teal scarf folded in her wardrobe, and the possibility of painting her nails a deep, glossy burgundy.

Small things. Almost embarrassingly small things.

Yet for the first time in a long while, she was looking forward to doing something for herself.

Not for a date.

Not for a matchmaker.

Not for the approval of some young man whose name she didn’t even know.

Just for Miriam.

And that evening, when she stood in front of her bedroom mirror, she made herself a small promise.

She would keep looking for the husband she wanted.

But she would no longer put her own life on hold while she waited for him.

By the time Miriam reached her apartment, the windows of the neighbouring buildings were glowing with the warm yellow light of family dinners. Somewhere downstairs, a baby was crying. From another apartment came the smell of onions frying, and a man on a balcony was having an animated telephone conversation about football.

It was an ordinary Jerusalem evening.

Miriam let herself in quietly.

“Is that you, Miriam?”

Her mother’s voice came from the kitchen.

“Yes, Ima.”

“How was your meeting with Mrs. Rosenfeld?”

There it was.

Miriam hung her handbag on its usual hook and took off her shoes. For a moment, she considered going straight to her bedroom. She could say she was tired and discuss it tomorrow.

But her mother would know something was wrong. She always knew.

“Can I help you with anything?” Miriam called.

“I’m just finishing supper. You can set the table, if you like.”

Miriam washed her hands and went into the kitchen.

Her mother was standing by the stove, stirring a pot of vegetable soup. She wore her usual house dress and a headscarf, and there was a small smudge of flour on her cheek. She looked up with a smile that became more tentative when she saw Miriam’s face.

“Nu?”

Miriam reached for the plates.

“She doesn’t have anyone at the moment.”

Her mother stopped stirring.

“What do you mean, nobody?”

“Nobody suitable to suggest. She’s contacted everyone she can think of. She said perhaps we should take a little break.”

For a moment, the only sound was the bubbling of the soup.

“Oh, Miriam.”

Her mother put down the wooden spoon.

“Come here, darling.”

Miriam stood still for a second, then allowed herself to be drawn into a hug.

Her mother’s embrace was warm and familiar. Miriam could smell the soap she used and the faint fragrance of the hand cream she kept beside the kitchen sink.

“We’ll find someone,” her mother murmured. “You mustn’t lose hope.”

Miriam closed her eyes.

“I know, Ima.”

“You’re a wonderful girl. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re still young.”

“I know.”

Her mother held her a little tighter.

“We’ll speak to other matchmakers. Perhaps someone has a cousin, or a nephew, or a young man who’s only just started dating. These things can change very quickly.”

Miriam felt the familiar pressure beginning to build behind her eyes. She loved her mother. She knew her mother meant every word. But she also knew that she couldn’t bear another conversation about how quickly things could change, or how many unmarried young men might still be out there somewhere.

“Ima?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Can we not talk about it for the rest of the evening?”

Her mother drew back slightly.

Miriam braced herself for disappointment, perhaps even a gentle reminder that she shouldn’t give up.

Instead, her mother studied her face and nodded.

“Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You haven’t.”

Her mother gave her a look that said she knew perfectly well that Miriam was being kind rather than truthful.

“Go and sit down. I’ll bring you some soup.”

“I can help.”

“You can help by sitting down and eating something.”

Miriam smiled faintly.

“All right.”

They ate together at the kitchen table. Her father came home a little later, greeted them both, and asked whether anything interesting had happened during the day. Miriam told him about something one of her pupils had said at school, and her mother described a neighbour’s new kitchen cabinets.

Nobody mentioned shidduchim again.

Miriam was grateful.

She was also aware that she had left something out.

She didn’t tell them about the bus, or the café, or the woman with purple hair who called herself Raven. She didn’t mention the hot chocolate or the walk through the park. She certainly didn’t mention the fact that she had spent an hour discussing atheism and witchcraft with a stranger who had somehow become the most comforting person she’d met in months.

It wasn’t that she was ashamed of Raven.

She simply didn’t know how to explain her.

And she wasn’t ready to hear her mother’s questions about whether Raven was religious, whether her family was respectable, or whether it was sensible for Miriam to spend time with someone so different.

For once, Miriam wanted to keep something for herself.

Something that didn’t need to be approved by anyone else.

Later that night, Miriam took a shower, brushed her teeth, and changed into her pyjamas.

They were a matching cotton tracksuit: soft grey trousers and a pale blue zip-up top. They were comfortable, warm, and entirely practical. She had bought them two winters ago because they were on sale, and she wore them so often that the fabric had begun to pill around the elbows.

She climbed into bed, arranged her pillows, and picked up her phone.

For several minutes, she simply stared at the screen.

Then she opened her contacts.

Raven 🖤

She smiled.

Hi. I got home safely.

The reply came almost immediately.

Raven 🖤: Excellent. Have you completed your homework assignment?

Miriam grinned.

Which part?

Raven 🖤: All of it, obviously. Buy something pretty. Wear the teal scarf. Be nice to yourself. I’m expecting a full report.

I haven’t bought anything yet. It’s been approximately three hours.

Raven 🖤: Excuses already. I’m disappointed.

Miriam laughed into her pillow.

I did wear the teal scarf last week, if that helps.

Raven 🖤: It helps a little. I’ll allow it.

Miriam settled more comfortably beneath her duvet.

She wasn’t used to texting someone just for the pleasure of talking. Usually, her messages were practical: arrangements with colleagues, family updates, questions about shopping, or conversations with friends that eventually circled back to weddings and matchmaking.

This felt different.

There was no particular purpose. Neither of them needed anything from the other. They were simply talking.

After a few minutes, Raven sent another message.

Raven 🖤: Important question.

What?

What are you wearing?

Miriam blinked at the screen.

She sat up a little, reread the message, and felt herself beginning to blush.

My pyjamas?

Raven 🖤: Fascinating. Do elaborate.

Miriam laughed.

It’s a cotton tracksuit. Grey trousers, pale blue top. Very glamorous.

Raven 🖤: Grey? Pale blue? Miriam, you dress like a cloud.

It’s comfortable!

Raven 🖤: I never said it wasn’t. I’m merely attempting to establish whether you own any garments that weren’t selected by a committee of practical grandmothers.

Miriam clapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself laughing too loudly.

I happen to like my tracksuit.

Raven 🖤: Good! Then you should wear it when you like it. I’m not advocating pyjama oppression.

A second message appeared.

Raven 🖤: For the record, I’m wearing a black nightgown with applique owls.

Miriam stared at the screen.

Owls?

Raven 🖤: Little black owls. With yellow eyes. They’re extremely sophisticated.

You own a nightgown with owls on it?

Raven 🖤: I contain multitudes, remember?

Miriam began to laugh so hard that she had to press her face into the pillow.

Her mother called from the other side of the apartment.

“Miriam? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, Ima!” Miriam called back, trying to sound composed. “I’m just reading something funny!”

There was a brief silence.

“All right, darling. Don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t!”

Miriam waited until she heard her mother’s bedroom door close before picking up her phone again.

I have to admit something.

Raven 🖤: This sounds promising.

Even in your pyjamas, you’re cooler than me.

There was a pause.

Then Raven replied.

Raven 🖤: Miriam.

Yes?

Raven 🖤: This is a serious matter.

Miriam smiled.

What is?

Raven 🖤: We cannot have you going through life believing that comfort and looking nice are mutually exclusive.

Miriam rolled onto her side.

I didn’t say they were.

Raven 🖤: Your tracksuit says otherwise.

My tracksuit is perfectly respectable.

Raven 🖤: I have no doubt that it could be admitted to a respectable seminary.

Miriam nearly dropped her phone.

RAVEN!

Raven 🖤: What? I’m sure it has excellent middot.

Miriam was laughing helplessly now, her shoulders shaking beneath the duvet.

She had not laughed like this in ages. Not the polite laughter of a date, where she was always monitoring herself to make sure she wasn’t being too silly. Not the careful laughter of a family dinner, where somebody might interpret too much enthusiasm as a sign that she wasn’t taking life seriously enough.

This was simply laughter.

She could be ridiculous. She could enjoy herself. She could send a message that made no practical contribution to her future and still consider the evening worthwhile.

When she finally managed to reply, she typed:

All right, what would you have me wear?

Raven answered so quickly that Miriam suspected she had been waiting for the question.

Raven 🖤: First, I would have you buy pyjamas that make you smile when you put them on.

Miriam read the sentence twice.

Such as?

Raven 🖤: A lovely colour. A pretty pattern. Something soft that feels nice against your skin. You could have little flowers, or stars, or cats. Or owls, if you wish to join the superior branch of nightwear.

Miriam smiled.

I don’t think I’m ready for owls.

Raven 🖤: Nobody is ready for owls. That’s what makes them powerful.

Another message followed.

Raven 🖤: But seriously. You spend all day wearing clothes that have to fit into the expectations of your community. That’s your choice, and I’m not suggesting you abandon it. But at home, when you’re going to bed, you can choose something simply because you like it.

Miriam looked down at her tracksuit.

The fabric was soft and familiar. There was nothing wrong with it. She didn’t suddenly hate it, and she didn’t feel compelled to throw it into the rubbish.

But she realised that she had bought it because it was practical and inexpensive. She had never asked herself whether she would enjoy wearing it.

She typed slowly.

I think I understand.

Raven 🖤: Good. And don’t go spending a fortune. This is not a luxury nightwear intervention. Find something you can afford and genuinely like.

Miriam smiled.

You sound very bossy for someone who claims to be a relaxed atheist witch.

Raven 🖤: I am relaxed. I am also correct about pyjamas.

Obviously.

There was a pause, and then Raven sent one final message.

Raven 🖤: Your assignment for this week: find one small thing that makes your life nicer. Not more productive. Not more marriageable. Just nicer. And then tell me about it.

Miriam thought about the plum-coloured skirt. The pretty underwear. The nail polish. The possibility of a new pair of pyjamas in a colour she loved.

For once, the list didn’t feel like a list of deficiencies to correct.

It felt like a set of invitations.

All right, she wrote. I promise I’ll try.

Raven 🖤: Excellent. Goodnight, Miriam. Sleep well.

Goodnight, Raven. And give my regards to the owls.

Raven 🖤: They acknowledge your existence.

Miriam put the phone on her bedside table and switched off the lamp.

The room became dark, apart from the thin line of streetlight beneath the curtains.

She lay on her back, listening to the familiar sounds of the apartment: her father’s footsteps in the hallway, a cupboard door closing in the kitchen, the distant rush of traffic beyond the window.

She was still thinking about what Mrs. Rosenfeld had said. She was still worried about the future. Tomorrow, she would still be an unmarried Orthodox woman in Jerusalem, with all the expectations and uncertainties that came with that.

But she was also thinking about little black owls with yellow eyes.

She smiled into the darkness.

Perhaps she would buy new pyjamas. Perhaps they would be burgundy, or teal, or some other colour she had never considered wearing before. Perhaps she would discover that she liked something soft and pretty, and that the world did not end because she had spent a little money on herself.

It was such a small thing.

But Miriam had begun to suspect that she had spent years waiting for her life to change in one enormous, dramatic moment: the right date, the right man, the right phone call.

Perhaps some changes began differently.

Perhaps they began with a cup of hot chocolate, a stranger who listened, and a ridiculous conversation about nightwear.

She pulled the duvet up to her chin.

Tomorrow, she decided, she would look for those pyjamas.

Not because they would make her prettier.

Not because they would make her more desirable.

Not because a future husband might someday appreciate them.

Just because Miriam deserved to have something nice.

And for tonight, that was enough.

The fabric of the grey tracksuit felt abrasive against her skin, a sudden, jarring reminder of the “practicality” she had lived by for so long. As Miriam lay in the silence of her room, the memory of Raven’s voice—low, confident, and entirely devoid of judgment—echoed in her mind. She thought of the silver rings, the shock of purple hair, and the way Raven had looked at her, not as a set of credentials for a matchmaker’s notebook, but as a person.

A strange, fluttering heat ignited in her lower abdomen, a sensation she usually suppressed or ignored as mere restlessness. She shifted, her thighs rubbing together, and the friction sent a sharp, electric jolt through her. She had never allowed herself to dwell on this kind of desire; it was a private, almost taboo territory, tucked away behind the modesty of her upbringing. But the image of Raven—the boldness of her, the way she occupied her own skin with such effortless ease—was an intoxicant.

Miriam reached down, her hand slipping beneath the waistband of the grey trousers. Her breath hitched. As she closed her eyes, she didn’t picture a husband or a wedding; she pictured the glint of a nose stud and the crooked, dimpled smile of a woman who called herself a raven. She imagined the feeling of those black-painted nails tracing the line of her hip, a touch that didn’t ask for permission from a matchmaker but simply wanted her. The pressure grew, a tight, humming coil of tension that mirrored the longing she had spent years denying. When the release finally came, it was a sudden, crashing wave that left her gasping, her heart hammering against her ribs in the dark.

For a long moment, she stayed still, listening to the silence of the house. The shame she expected to feel didn’t arrive. Instead, there was a profound sense of ownership. For the first time in her twenty-five years, she had claimed a moment of pleasure that belonged entirely to her, untethered from the goal of motherhood or the requirement of a spouse.

The next morning, the sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting long, pale stripes across her duvet. Miriam woke up feeling lighter, as if a heavy coat she hadn’t realized she was wearing had finally slipped off her shoulders.

The first time Miriam and Raven met again, it was for coffee.

The second time, it was for a walk.

The third time, Raven sent a message that read:

I have a proposal. It is dangerous, possibly life-changing, and may involve spending money.

Miriam, who was marking spelling tests, frowned at her phone.

That sounds ominous.

Underwear shopping.

Miriam nearly dropped her red pen.

She read the message again, hoping it might somehow have changed into something less alarming.

What?

Underwear shopping. You know. The stuff you wear under your clothes. Usually sold in shops. Sometimes with suspicious lighting.

I know what underwear is, Raven.

Excellent. We can skip the introductory lecture.

Miriam looked around the empty staff room, as if someone might have overheard the conversation through the walls.

I don’t know if I can do that.

The answer came almost immediately.

Of course you can. You are an adult woman with money and a functioning shopping bag. Unless you have a secret phobia of changing rooms, in which case we will develop a plan involving a small bell and emergency biscuits.

Miriam smiled despite herself.

I don’t have a phobia of changing rooms.

Wonderful. Thursday?

Miriam hesitated. She imagined walking into a lingerie shop with Raven, whose purple hair, black clothes and assortment of piercings would attract attention in Jerusalem. She imagined the sales assistant looking at her body. She imagined the price tags. She imagined the sheer absurdity of being twenty-five years old and needing a friend to accompany her to buy underwear.

Then she thought about the old grey bras in her drawer. They were perfectly functional. They had been perfectly functional for years. She bought replacements only when the old ones became too worn to justify keeping.

She had never bought anything simply because she liked the way it looked.

Thursday, she typed.

Raven sent back a skull emoji, a pink heart and what appeared to be a small shopping basket.

Wear comfortable shoes. We are going to battle.

On Thursday afternoon, Miriam stood outside the shop for almost three minutes before going in.

It was a perfectly ordinary lingerie shop in a shopping centre. There were mannequins in the window, tasteful displays of bras and folded underwear, and a sign advertising a seasonal sale. Nothing about it was remotely scandalous.

Nevertheless, Miriam felt as though she were about to do something that would require a confession.

Raven emerged from the shop carrying a small paper cup of coffee.

“You’re early,” she said.

“I was on time.”

“Exactly. Suspicious behaviour.”

Raven looked her up and down, taking in her navy skirt, cream blouse and neatly pinned hair.

“You look lovely.”

Miriam immediately became uncomfortable. “I look normal.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive categories.”

“I just mean—”

“I know what you mean.” Raven softened her voice. “Come on. We are not buying a new personality. We’re buying some underwear.”

Inside, the shop was warm and brightly lit. A sales assistant greeted them, and Miriam instinctively looked towards the practical section at the back, where plain white and beige bras hung in tidy rows.

Raven noticed.

“Before you flee to the land of beige,” she said quietly, “I want to establish some ground rules.”

Miriam eyed her warily. “Ground rules?”

“Yes. First, you don’t have to buy anything you don’t want. Second, you don’t have to buy anything expensive. Third, you don’t have to buy anything revealing. Fourth, you don’t have to justify what you like to me.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“Fifth, if you tell me that beige is your favourite colour, I reserve the right to ask whether you’ve been feeling all right.”

Miriam laughed, and some of the tension left her shoulders.

They began by looking at bras. Raven was surprisingly knowledgeable about fabrics, seams and construction. She explained the difference between something that looked attractive on a hanger and something that would still feel comfortable after eight hours of teaching.

“Pretty is no use if the underwire is trying to assassinate you,” she said, holding up a bra for inspection. “We have enough problems in life.”

Miriam found herself considering things she had never paid attention to before. A smooth bra in a deep wine colour. Another in muted teal. A soft lavender one with tiny embroidered flowers. She touched the fabrics, tested the stretch between her fingers, and examined the seams.

She picked up the wine-coloured bra.

Then she put it down.

Then she picked it up again.

Raven, who had been looking at a rack of black lace, pretended not to notice.

“That one is pretty,” Miriam said eventually.

“Then try it.”

“But what if it doesn’t suit me?”

“Then you take it off and we learn something about a piece of fabric. Nobody dies.”

Miriam glanced towards the changing rooms.

“I don’t know if the colour will look right on me.”

“That’s what mirrors are for. They’re not judges. They’re just rather overconfident pieces of glass.”

Miriam took the bra and went to try it on.

When she emerged a few minutes later, Raven was sitting on a little upholstered stool, scrolling through her phone. She looked up.

“Well?”

Miriam glanced down at herself. The bra was a rich burgundy, darker than she had expected, with delicate matching stitching along the edges. It was not dramatically different from the plain bras she usually wore. It was simply beautiful in a quiet, grown-up way.

“I think I like it,” she said.

Raven put her phone away.

“Excellent. How does it feel?”

“Comfortable.”

“Can you move?”

Miriam lifted her arms, turned sideways, then made an experimental little hop.

Raven nodded solemnly. “A rigorous scientific protocol. Approved.”

Miriam giggled.

“And,” Raven added, “you don’t have to decide whether it makes you look better. The question is whether you like wearing it.”

Miriam looked at herself in the mirror again.

She had spent years examining her body as though it were a problem that needed solving. She had looked at her waist, her hips, her breasts, her thighs, and tried to imagine them through the eyes of a man who might reject her. Every piece of clothing had become part of a silent negotiation with an imaginary future husband.

Now, for the first time, she was looking at a piece of clothing and asking a different question.

Do I like this?

The answer was yes.

She bought it.

Then she bought the teal one.

And, after considerable internal debate, she bought the lavender one too.

Raven’s shopping was considerably less restrained.

She emerged from the lingerie section with a black lace bra draped over one arm, followed by another in a slightly different design.

Miriam stared.

“How many of those do you own?”

“Black lace bras?”

“Yes.”

Raven considered the question seriously. “That’s a deeply personal matter.”

“Raven.”

“I don’t know. Several.”

“Several?”

“Enough that if I ever lose my luggage, the airport security people will think a very small, very goth lingerie shop has been robbed.”

Miriam burst out laughing.

Raven was now examining a black lace bralette, holding it up against her black shirt. She found another with scalloped edges, then a matching pair of underwear. She seemed entirely at ease, comparing the designs and checking the labels.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Miriam asked.

“What?”

“Buying things like that. I mean, the lace. The fact that they’re—” She gestured vaguely. “Not plain.”

Raven looked down at the black lace in her hands.

“No. I like black. I like lace. I like things that make me feel like myself. That’s pretty much the whole mystery.”

“But don’t you ever feel silly? Buying something nobody sees?”

Raven’s expression changed slightly. She set the bralette down and turned towards Miriam.

“Sometimes people buy things because they want somebody else to see them. That’s fine. Sometimes they buy things because they want to see themselves wearing them. That’s fine too. And sometimes they buy things because they’re comfortable, or practical, or on sale. Also fine.”

She picked up the lace again.

“I don’t need an audience to enjoy my own wardrobe.”

Miriam absorbed that.

There was something almost shocking about the simplicity of it. Raven wasn’t making a grand declaration about sexuality or freedom. She wasn’t telling Miriam to become a different person. She was simply buying things she liked, without having to construct an argument for why she deserved them.

“Besides,” Raven added, “black lace is an excellent investment in one’s general air of mysterious competence.”

“You look mysterious?”

“I look like someone who knows where the good biscuits are hidden.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“You’re right. It’s much more useful.”

Raven added three items to her basket: two black lace bras and a matching set of underwear, all different in their details. She checked the prices, rejected one particularly expensive set with a regretful sigh, and found a similar one on sale.

Miriam watched her do the calculations.

“You really do think about the price.”

“Of course. I’m not independently wealthy. I’m a goth, not a medieval countess.”

That, too, was a relief. Miriam had half expected that this whole exercise would turn out to be another expensive demand, another way of being told that she needed to spend money to become the sort of woman she ought to be.

Instead, Raven was as careful with her money as Miriam was. The difference was that Raven didn’t believe carefulness required choosing the dullest available option.

They ended up in the changing rooms together, each behind her own door, passing clothes and opinions through the narrow gap between the curtains.

“How is the burgundy?” Raven called.

“Good.”

“Good as in comfortable, or good as in you are standing there trying to persuade yourself that you like it because it cost money?”

Miriam looked down at herself.

“Comfortable. And I actually like the colour.”

“Excellent. We are making progress.”

Miriam tried on the teal bra. It was soft and smooth, with a small decorative detail near the centre. She liked that one too.

Then, almost on impulse, she tried the lavender one.

She stood in front of the mirror for a long time.

It was a colour she would once have dismissed as frivolous. Too pretty. Too young. Too much trouble for something no one would see. Yet the pale purple looked lovely against her skin, and the tiny embroidered flowers made her smile.

She opened the curtain a little.

“Raven?”

“Yes?”

“I think I like this one best.”

Raven appeared around the edge of her own curtain, fully dressed, holding a shopping bag and looking delighted.

“Then that’s the one.”

“Even though I already have the burgundy and the teal?”

“Especially because you already have the burgundy and the teal. You are allowed to have favourites.”

Miriam looked down at the lavender fabric.

“I can’t remember the last time I bought something just because I liked it.”

Raven’s expression softened.

“Then I’m glad you did today.”

Miriam swallowed. For a moment, she thought she might cry, which seemed ridiculous given that she was standing in a lingerie shop wearing a lavender bra while her friend held a shopping bag full of black lace.

“I know this is a small thing,” she said.

“Small things are still things.”

“I feel a bit foolish.”

“You’re allowed. But you don’t have to stop.”

Miriam looked at her in the mirror. “What if I go home and decide it was silly?”

“Then you’ll have a lavender bra. The world will continue turning. I promise to keep you updated on any unexpected astronomical consequences.”

Miriam laughed, and the moment passed.

She bought all three.

They stopped for a drink afterwards, sitting at a small café table with their shopping bags tucked beneath their chairs.

Miriam had chosen a hot chocolate. Raven had ordered tea and a slice of cake that looked as though it had been decorated by someone with a personal grudge against moderation.

“May I ask you something?” Miriam said.

“Always dangerous, but proceed.”

“Do you ever worry that you’re doing womanhood wrong?”

Raven put down her fork.

“Constantly. I worry that I’m not goth enough, not organised enough, not politically informed enough, not sufficiently interested in the correct obscure bands. I once spent twenty minutes wondering whether my earrings were too cheerful.”

Miriam laughed.

“No, I mean—” She searched for the words. “Do you ever feel as though there is a right way to be a woman, and you’re failing at it?”

“Oh, absolutely. The world is full of people who will tell you that you are doing womanhood wrong. Some want you to be thin. Some want you to be curvy, but only in the correct places. Some want you to be sexually confident, but not too confident. Some want you to be modest, but not unfashionable. Some want you to be married by twenty-five, and some want you to be so independent that needing anyone becomes a moral failure.”

Raven paused.

“The trick, I think, is not to spend your whole life trying to satisfy every imaginary committee.”

Miriam stirred her hot chocolate.

“In my community, marriage matters. It’s not imaginary.”

“No,” Raven said. “It matters to you. You want a husband, a home, children, Shabbat dinners, all of that. I’m not suggesting you pretend otherwise.”

“I’m glad.”

“But your community’s expectations and your own hopes don’t have to become a single enormous judge sitting inside your head. You can want to get married and still enjoy being alive now. You can be serious about modesty and still like pretty underwear. You can hope somebody will love you without deciding that you must be unlovable until he arrives.”

Miriam stared into her cup.

The words did not solve anything. She was still twenty-five. She was still single. Her matchmaker still had no suggestions, and the prospect of beginning the whole process again felt exhausting. She still worried about her weight, and she could not magically stop caring about whether men found her attractive.

But perhaps she did not have to solve every one of those problems before she was permitted to enjoy an afternoon.

“I think,” she said slowly, “I’ve been treating my life as though it’s a waiting room.”

Raven nodded. “Waiting for what?”

“For my real life to begin.”

“And what if it’s already begun?”

Miriam looked up.

Raven did not smile triumphantly or look as though she’d won an argument. She simply broke off a piece of cake and offered it to Miriam.

“Here. Have some cake. It is not going to improve your marriage prospects.”

Miriam took the piece.

“That’s a shame. It’s very good cake.”

“Perhaps you should marry the cake.”

“Raven!”

“What? It has excellent qualities. It is sweet, reliable, and doesn’t ask you to change your body.”

Miriam laughed so hard that she had to put her cup down.

That evening, Miriam unpacked her purchases in the privacy of her bedroom.

She put the burgundy bra in her drawer, then the teal one, and finally the lavender one. She folded the matching underwear carefully and arranged everything among the older, practical garments.

The lavender set looked almost comically delicate beside the plain grey and white things surrounding it.

For a moment, the familiar voice returned.

Why did you buy that? You’re not going anywhere. Nobody will see it. You don’t need it. You should have saved the money.

She stood with the drawer open.

Then she remembered Raven in the shop, calmly checking prices, choosing the black lace because she liked it, and refusing to apologise to the world for having preferences.

Miriam touched the lavender fabric.

“I like it,” she said quietly.

It sounded strange to hear herself say those words without immediately following them with a reason why she shouldn’t.

She shut the drawer.

Later, when she texted Raven, she wrote:

I put everything away. I still feel a bit ridiculous, but I think I’m happy I bought them.

Raven replied:

Excellent. The lavender has been accepted into the household.

You make it sound like an adoption.

Please ensure it receives adequate food, shelter and emotional support.

It’s a bra, Raven.

And yet you are the one who bought it a home.

Miriam shook her head, smiling.

Then she typed something she had not planned to say.

Thank you for today. Not just for taking me shopping. For not making me feel like I had to become someone else.

This time Raven took longer to reply.

You don’t have to become someone else, Miriam. You get to become more yourself.

Miriam read the sentence twice.

She didn’t know exactly what it meant yet. She suspected that becoming more herself would be a slow process, full of awkward moments and old habits and days when she would still measure her worth by the absence of a second date.

But she had bought a lavender bra because she liked it.

She had bought a teal one because it made her feel cheerful.

She had laughed in a café until her stomach hurt, and she had spent an afternoon with a friend who could wear black lace without needing to turn it into a statement about the universe.

None of those things had made her more marriageable. None had brought a potential husband any closer.

For the first time in a long while, that was not the point.

Miriam switched off her bedside lamp and settled under the covers.

Tomorrow she would teach her class, come home, help her mother prepare supper, and carry on living the ordinary life she had sometimes mistaken for a prelude to something more important.

And somewhere in her drawer, among the practical grey and white things, was a little patch of lavender.

It was not a revolution.

But it was hers.

Miriam did not intend to ask.

The question simply escaped one Sunday afternoon while she and Raven were sitting on a bench in the park, sharing a paper bag of roasted almonds. Raven was telling her about a disagreement in her coven over whether a particular herbal tea was genuinely calming or whether everyone had merely decided it ought to be.

“So what actually happens at your meetings?” Miriam asked.

Raven looked at her. “At the coven?”

“Yes.”

“Well, last Tuesday we spent forty minutes discussing whether one of the members should leave her boyfriend.”

“That doesn’t sound very witchy.”

“He was a dreadful boyfriend. We felt it was our duty to the supernatural community.”

Miriam laughed. “No, seriously.”

“Seriously, we had tea, we talked, someone brought a book about medieval herb lore, and then we did a little seasonal ritual. There was also an argument about whether the moon was visible through the clouds, which was not our finest hour.”

Miriam picked a crumb off her skirt.

“Could I come sometime?”

Raven stopped eating.

For once, she didn’t immediately make a joke.

“You want to visit the coven?”

“Only if that’s all right. I’m curious. You talk about it so much that I’d like to see it for myself.”

“Of course it’s all right. I’d have to ask the others, because it’s their space too, but I can’t imagine they’d mind.” Raven studied her thoughtfully. “Are you sure? It isn’t exactly a familiar environment for you.”

“I know.”

“And some of them look rather alarming. One has a collection of skulls. They’re ceramic, mostly, but I don’t think that will help.”

“I survived buying underwear with you. I think I can manage a ceramic skull.”

“That is the spirit.”

Miriam hesitated.

“There’s just one thing.”

“Ah. Here it comes.”

“I don’t want to dress up in a way that makes me uncomfortable. I know it’s probably silly, but I don’t want to wear trousers, and I don’t want anything too revealing. I don’t want to feel as though I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.”

Raven’s face became serious.

“That isn’t silly. And nobody is going to make you dress in a way you don’t want to. We can find something that lets you feel like yourself and still fits the occasion.”

Miriam looked relieved.

“Would you help me?”

Raven grinned.

“Miriam, I have been waiting for someone to invite me to solve a wardrobe problem with this much potential.”

They met the following Thursday at Raven’s apartment.

Miriam had been there once before, briefly, to drop off a book. The apartment was on the second floor of an old Jerusalem building, and its interior looked as though a particularly eccentric antique shop had married a university library. There were books everywhere, plants on the windowsills, a black cat asleep on the back of the sofa, and a collection of small objects that Miriam had decided were probably either decorations or evidence of a minor supernatural incident.

Raven opened the door wearing a faded band T-shirt, a long black skirt and enormous silver earrings.

“Welcome to my fashion laboratory.”

“Is the cat part of the laboratory?”

“She’s head of quality control. She has no qualifications, but she’s very confident.”

The cat opened one eye at Miriam, decided she was not worth further investigation, and returned to sleep.

Raven had asked Miriam to bring a few things she already owned. They spread them across the bed: long skirts, cardigans, blouses, scarves and a pair of boots Miriam had bought years ago but rarely wore because they seemed too fashionable for ordinary life.

Raven surveyed the collection.

“Well, this is promising.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. You have the foundations of a perfectly respectable witch.”

Miriam blinked.

“Is that a category?”

“It is now.”

They began with a long, dark green skirt. Raven paired it with Miriam’s black ankle boots, a cream blouse with a high neckline, and a charcoal cardigan. The outfit was modest by Miriam’s standards, but darker and more dramatic than anything she normally wore.

Miriam studied herself in the full-length mirror.

“I look like I’m going to a very serious conference.”

“What sort of conference?”

“Medieval history, perhaps.”

“Excellent. The witches of medieval history are delighted to have you.”

Raven tried a different scarf, this one deep plum, and tucked it loosely around Miriam’s shoulders.

“Better?”

Miriam turned sideways.

“I think so.”

“Now, jewellery.”

Raven opened a wooden box full of rings, necklaces, earrings and brooches. She chose a small silver pendant shaped like a crescent moon and held it up.

“Too much?”

Miriam examined it.

“No. It’s rather pretty.”

“Then we’re getting somewhere.”

They tried a few combinations. A long black skirt with a dark red blouse. A forest-green cardigan with a silver brooch. Miriam’s own navy headband, which Raven declared an underrated accessory. Eventually they settled on a simple outfit: a black ankle-length skirt, a dark plum blouse with long sleeves and a high neckline, her own comfortable boots, and a soft grey scarf. Raven added a silver crescent pendant and a pair of small, dark earrings.

Miriam looked at herself again.

She still looked like Miriam. There was no attempt to disguise her religious background or to turn her into a different person. But the colours were richer, the lines a little more deliberate, and the jewellery gave the outfit a quiet sense of occasion.

“I like this,” she said.

“Good.”

“I don’t feel as though I’m wearing a costume.”

“Even better.”

Miriam smiled at her reflection. “I feel a little mysterious.”

Raven pressed a hand to her chest.

“My work here is done.”

“You haven’t even started.”

“I have achieved a measurable improvement in mystery. Anything beyond this point is administrative.”

They both laughed.

Then Miriam’s expression grew thoughtful.

“Do you think they’ll mind that I’m Orthodox?”

Raven sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I can’t promise that every person in every group will understand every aspect of your life. But these women aren’t a committee for approving each other’s identities. They know I’m an atheist. They know other members believe in magic. They know some people are there for the spirituality and some are there because they like candles, folklore and having friends who will answer the phone at eleven at night.”

“And if they ask me about Judaism?”

“Then you can tell them what you want to tell them. You don’t have to defend your entire community over tea.”

Miriam considered that.

“I think I spend a lot of time preparing to defend myself before anyone has actually attacked me.”

Raven’s expression softened.

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

“Well, for tonight, your only responsibilities are to be polite, have a biscuit, and tell us if you find anything interesting.”

“That sounds manageable.”

“Good. Because I have been assured there will be biscuits.”

The coven met in a large rented room behind a community arts centre. It was a warm, slightly untidy space with mismatched chairs, shelves of books and a long table covered in mugs, plates and an assortment of small decorative objects.

There were candles in glass jars. A few polished stones sat in a wooden bowl. A poster of the phases of the moon hung crookedly on the wall. Someone had placed a small plastic skeleton on the windowsill wearing a knitted hat.

Miriam stopped in the doorway.

She had expected something more dramatic. Perhaps a darkened room, chanting, strange symbols and people speaking in solemn voices about mysterious forces. She had imagined herself standing awkwardly at the edge of a circle, uncertain when to bow or what to say.

Instead, a woman with bright orange hair was trying to open a packet of biscuits without tearing the wrapper.

“Raven!” she called. “You’re late, and I have a grievance.”

“Only one? You’re improving.”

“The kettle is making that noise again.”

“Have you tried threatening it?”

“I did. It made the noise louder.”

Raven turned to Miriam.

“Welcome to the occult.”

The orange-haired woman looked up.

“Oh! You must be Miriam.”

Miriam braced herself.

“Yes. Hello.”

“I’m Dani. Raven told us you might come. Would you like tea? We’ve got mint, chamomile, Earl Grey, and something that claims to be a sleep blend but tastes like a hedge.”

“Mint would be lovely, thank you.”

“Excellent choice. It tastes like a garden that has its life together.”

Miriam smiled.

Dani handed her a mug and introduced her to the others. There were seven women present, ranging in age from their early twenties to their sixties. One wore a black velvet dress and a collection of silver rings. Another had jeans and a bright yellow jumper. An older woman with grey hair was knitting a scarf while listening to someone complain about her landlord.

They were not all alike, and they did not seem particularly interested in pretending to be.

A tall woman named Yael, who wore a small pendant shaped like an eye, greeted Miriam warmly.

“Raven says you’re a teacher.”

“Yes. Primary school.”

“Oh, that must be exhausting.”

“It can be.”

“I teach adults. They’re just as bad, but they know more complicated words to use when they refuse to do their homework.”

Miriam laughed.

Someone asked whether she wanted milk in her tea. Someone else moved a chair to make room. Dani found a plate and piled it with biscuits. Within five minutes, Miriam was listening to an animated discussion about a woman who had apparently been dating a man who believed that doing the washing up was incompatible with his spiritual development.

“Apparently,” said the woman in the yellow jumper, “he could invoke the goddess of domestic harmony but not locate a sponge.”

“That is a common manifestation of masculine enlightenment,” Raven observed.

Miriam laughed into her tea.

She had expected to feel like an outsider. Instead, she felt like a guest at a gathering of women who had known one another long enough to tease each other without cruelty.

They asked about her teaching, and she told them about a child who had recently decided that every historical figure in the curriculum must have owned a dragon. They wanted to know whether Miriam enjoyed her work, whether the children were difficult, whether she had always wanted to teach.

Nobody asked whether she was married.

Nobody asked why she wasn’t.

Nobody looked at her body and made a discreet calculation about what kind of man might be willing to date her.

The absence of those questions was so noticeable that, at first, she found it difficult to relax.

Then Dani offered her another biscuit.

Miriam accepted.

Eventually, someone announced that it was time for the evening’s ritual.

Miriam straightened in her chair.

At last, she thought, she would see what a coven actually did.

The women began clearing the table. They moved their mugs aside, placed a few objects in the centre, and lit several candles. Yael brought out a small bowl of water and a dish of dried herbs. Dani switched off the overhead light, though the room remained bright enough to see comfortably.

Raven leaned towards Miriam.

“You don’t have to participate in anything you’re uncomfortable with. You can simply watch.”

“All right.”

The ritual itself lasted perhaps fifteen minutes.

Yael explained that they were marking the change of season and taking a moment to think about what they wanted to carry forward and what they wanted to leave behind. They took turns saying a few words. One woman spoke about wanting to stop apologising for taking up space. Another wanted the courage to change jobs. Dani said she wished to stop answering messages from her ex after midnight.

“May the spirits grant me self-control,” she said solemnly.

“Or may you block his number,” Raven suggested.

“That would be less mystical.”

“It might be more effective.”

There was laughter, and then the group fell quiet again.

Some of the women treated the ritual as a spiritual act. Miriam could tell from the way they spoke about intention, nature and the unseen. Others seemed to regard it more as a symbolic exercise, a way to give shape to feelings that might otherwise remain vague. Raven herself spoke about wanting to be more patient with a friend who was going through a difficult time.

She did not invoke any supernatural power. She simply said what she hoped to do.

Miriam listened carefully.

She did not believe in magic. She was not tempted to participate in the ritual, and she did not feel any need to pretend otherwise. Yet there was something recognisable in the gathering: people trying to make sense of their lives, to mark time, to give words to hopes and fears, to be witnessed by others.

When the ritual ended, Yael blew out the candles.

“Right,” she announced. “Who wants to discuss the landlord’s letter?”

Three people spoke at once.

Within seconds, the room had returned to its earlier bustle.

Miriam stared at Raven.

“That’s it?”

Raven looked innocent. “What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know. More spells?”

“We did the ritual.”

“But it was so short.”

“Most of us have work tomorrow.”

Miriam tried not to laugh.

“I thought witchcraft was the main point of a coven.”

Raven leaned back in her chair.

“Sometimes it is, for people who believe in it. For others, ritual is a way of expressing something, or marking a moment, or doing something together. But most of the time, we’re just people. People need friends. They need to talk about their lives. They need to complain about landlords, celebrate good news, help each other through break-ups, and have somewhere to go when they’re lonely.”

Dani, who had overheard, pointed a biscuit at them.

“And sometimes they need to be told that their ex is an idiot.”

“That too,” Raven agreed.

Miriam looked around the room. The ceramic skulls were on a shelf beside a stack of novels. The polished stones were scattered among mugs and packets of tissues. The little plastic skeleton was now wearing someone’s spare glasses.

She had come expecting a world of spells and witchcraft.

What she had found was a world of friendship, with a little ritual around the edges.

Later, as they helped tidy the room, Miriam found herself beside an older woman named Liora, who had spent most of the evening knitting.

“You seemed a little nervous when you arrived,” Liora said.

“I was.”

“Did we disappoint you?”

Miriam blinked. “No! Not at all. I just expected something different.”

“More mysterious?”

“Yes.”

Liora smiled.

“We can be mysterious if we need to be. But it’s difficult to sustain an atmosphere of ancient magic when someone has to go and buy more toilet paper.”

Miriam laughed.

“Raven told me that most of you come here for the company.”

“She’s right. We have people who are deeply spiritual, people who are interested in history and folklore, people who like the aesthetics, and people who aren’t quite sure what they believe. We don’t all agree about everything. But we try to be kind to each other.”

“Does that ever cause arguments?”

“Of course. We are not enlightened beings. We are women with opinions and occasionally terrible judgement.”

Liora tucked the knitting into her bag.

“But the point is that you can disagree about the universe and still help someone carry a sofa up three flights of stairs.”

Miriam thought about that all the way home.

She was used to communities built around shared commitments: shared prayers, shared laws, shared assumptions about how life ought to be lived. There was comfort in that. She would not have wanted to abandon her own community, with its Shabbat meals, its familiar melodies and the rhythms of Jewish life.

But she had never really encountered a group that seemed so comfortable admitting that its members might disagree about the deepest questions in existence, yet still choose to spend Tuesday evenings together.

It was not necessarily better. It was simply different.

And she found herself wondering whether friendship could sometimes be a bond in its own right, rather than something that followed from agreement.

Outside, the Jerusalem night was cool. Raven tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat as they walked towards the bus stop.

“Well?” she asked.

Miriam considered her answer.

“I liked it.”

“Good.”

“I really liked it.”

Raven smiled. “Even the hedge tea?”

“Especially the hedge tea. I feel that I understand the supernatural now.”

“Excellent. Next week we shall summon a plumber.”

Miriam laughed.

They walked for a little while without speaking. Then Miriam said, “I was surprised by how much time everyone spent talking to each other. I thought the spells would be the important part.”

“For some people, the spiritual side is important. I don’t want to pretend otherwise. But the group is also a place where people are known. Where someone notices if you haven’t been around. Where you can arrive in a terrible mood and not have to explain yourself before someone makes you a cup of tea.”

Miriam looked at the pavement.

“That sounds lovely.”

“It is lovely.”

“Do you ever miss that kind of community from when you were religious?”

Raven took a moment before answering.

“Sometimes. I miss the familiarity of it. I miss knowing the songs, knowing what happened next, having a whole calendar of things that mattered. And I miss some of the people. But I don’t miss believing things I no longer believed.”

Miriam nodded.

“That makes sense.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m suggesting you should leave your community and join mine. That would be ridiculous. You’d have to put up with my tea, for one thing.”

“I survived the hedge tea.”

“You’re stronger than you look.”

Miriam smiled, then grew thoughtful again.

“I think what surprised me most was that nobody seemed to be measuring anyone else. Nobody was checking whether someone was doing womanhood properly, or whether she was successful, or whether her life was going according to plan.”

Raven glanced at her.

“Well, we do judge people for putting milk in the wrong kind of tea.”

“Obviously.”

“But the serious things? We try not to turn them into competitions.”

Miriam was quiet for several steps.

“I didn’t realise how much I needed to be somewhere that wasn’t about whether I’d found a husband.”

Raven did not rush to fill the silence.

At last, Miriam continued.

“I still want to get married. I don’t want to pretend I don’t. I want a Jewish home. I want children. I want all of it.”

“I know.”

“But tonight, nobody seemed to think that was the only thing that mattered about me.”

“Because it isn’t.”

Miriam stopped at the bus shelter. The glass reflected the two of them: Raven in black, with her vivid hair and silver jewellery, and Miriam in her long dark skirt and plum blouse, looking a little more deliberate and a little less apologetic than usual.

“Do you think I looked silly?” she asked.

Raven turned to her, genuinely surprised.

“Miriam. You looked lovely.”

“Not like I was pretending to be someone else?”

“No. You looked like Miriam, who happens to have discovered that dark green and plum are excellent colours.”

Miriam looked down at her skirt, smoothing a small crease.

“I liked wearing it.”

“Then wear it again.”

“I might.”

The bus arrived, its lights bright against the dark street. Miriam climbed aboard and found a seat near the window. Raven waved from the pavement, then raised both hands in a theatrical gesture of farewell, as though sending a departing ship into the unknown.

Miriam laughed and waved back.

As the bus pulled away, she thought about the evening: the biscuits, the laughter, the brief candlelit ritual, the conversation about landlords, the woman who had offered her tea without asking what she believed.

She was still Orthodox. She still believed in the Torah, still intended to keep Shabbat, still wanted a husband and children. Nothing about the evening had changed those things.

But for two hours, she had been a teacher, a funny storyteller, a guest, a woman who liked plum-coloured clothes and mint tea.

She had not been a prospective bride.

She had not been a disappointing outcome of a matchmaking process.

She had simply been Miriam.

And perhaps that was what Raven had been trying to show her all along: not that she needed to escape the life she wanted, but that there were more ways to inhabit it than she had allowed herself to imagine.

By the time Miriam realised that Raven had become one of the most important people in her life, they had already established a routine.

It had happened without either of them deciding that it should.

On Tuesday afternoons, if neither was busy, they met for coffee. Sometimes they walked through the streets of Jerusalem, stopping to look at things they had no intention of buying. Sometimes they sat in a park and talked. Sometimes they went to a bookshop, where Miriam gravitated towards history and Jewish philosophy while Raven explored folklore, horror novels and books about mushrooms.

They had discovered that they could spend an entire afternoon together without doing anything particularly useful.

This was, for Miriam, a revolutionary development.

One Tuesday, Raven persuaded her to visit a small art exhibition. Miriam had initially protested that she knew nothing about art.

“Neither do I,” Raven said. “That’s why we can look at it without the burden of expertise.”

They spent twenty minutes arguing about whether an abstract painting resembled a stormy sea or a badly made omelette. Miriam insisted on the omelette. Raven maintained that the artist had probably intended both.

Another afternoon, they bought ingredients and attempted to make cinnamon rolls in Raven’s kitchen. Raven was responsible for the dough, Miriam for the filling, and the cat for sitting on the recipe book. The rolls emerged from the oven looking lopsided but tasting magnificent.

Miriam ate two.

“You’re not going to tell me how many calories are in those, are you?” she asked.

Raven looked horrified.

“Miriam. I have standards.”

“Sorry.”

“If I ever start discussing the caloric content of a cinnamon roll while we’re eating it, you have my permission to hit me with a wooden spoon.”

Miriam laughed so hard she nearly dropped the third roll she was considering.

The most important part was not the coffee, the walks or even the cinnamon rolls. It was that Raven never asked Miriam what she had achieved by the end of their afternoons.

There was no question of whether the outing had made her more attractive, more accomplished, more marriageable or more prepared for the future. If they enjoyed themselves, the afternoon had been worthwhile.

Gradually, Miriam began to adopt this strange principle in other parts of her life.

She bought a novel simply because the cover appealed to her. She started taking the longer route home from school because it passed through a particularly pleasant garden. She began listening to music while she cooked, sometimes even singing along when she was certain nobody could hear her.

She was still Miriam. She still prayed, kept Shabbat, worried about matchmaking and hoped that one day she would have a family of her own.

But she was beginning to discover that there was a difference between waiting for her life to begin and actually living it.

And Raven was becoming the person with whom she most wanted to share those discoveries.

The invitation to meet Miriam’s parents came about over a plate of biscuits.

They were sitting in Raven’s apartment one Thursday evening. Miriam had brought a container of homemade rugelach, and Raven had supplied tea, a collection of increasingly implausible ghost stories, and a solemn report that her cat had begun sleeping on a different chair.

“She’s clearly unhappy with the current state of household management,” Raven explained.

“Have you considered asking her?”

“She refuses to communicate with management.”

Miriam smiled, then grew thoughtful.

“Would you like to meet my parents?”

Raven put down her mug.

“Your parents?”

“Yes.”

“At their house?”

“That’s generally where parents are found.”

“Some are found in shopping centres. Others lurk around wedding halls.”

“Raven.”

“Sorry. Continue.”

Miriam took a breath.

“I’ve told them about you. Well, not everything. I’ve told them that I’ve made a friend, that she’s kind and funny, and that she’s been helping me get out of my own head a little.”

“That sounds very flattering. I shall try to live up to the legend.”

“They’d like to meet you. My mother especially. She’s been asking me who I spend time with.”

Raven looked at her for a moment.

There was a difficulty here, and both of them knew it.

Raven’s family had been Orthodox once. Her parents still knew her as Shira, the girl who had grown up in their home, studied Torah, and gradually moved away from religious belief. They loved her. They had not disowned her, and she had not disowned them. But Raven’s appearance now was a very public expression of a life that no longer resembled the one they had imagined for her.

Miriam’s parents were not cruel people. They were ordinary, observant Jerusalem parents who cared deeply about their daughter and wanted her to find a good husband. They would probably be bewildered by Raven’s purple hair and piercings. They might wonder what sort of influence she would have on Miriam.

Miriam did not want their first meeting to become a discussion about religious departure.

“I wondered,” she said carefully, “whether you might be willing to visit them as Shira.”

Raven’s expression became still.

Miriam hurried on.

“I don’t mean that you have to. I know you’re Raven now, and I don’t want you to feel that you have to hide yourself for my sake. It’s just that my parents don’t know you yet, and I thought it might be easier if they met you first as the girl I grew up with, rather than as someone they might make assumptions about before you’ve even said hello.”

Raven looked down at her hands.

“Would you be comfortable introducing me as Shira?”

“Yes. That’s your name too. It’s not a lie.”

“No,” Raven said. “It isn’t.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“There’s a difference between choosing how much of yourself to reveal and being ashamed of yourself.”

“I know.”

“And if your mother asks whether I believe in God?”

“I’ll tell her that you’re a friend I care about, and that I don’t intend to make our first meeting an examination of your theology.”

Raven laughed softly.

“That sounds like you.”

Miriam waited.

At last, Raven nodded.

“All right. I’ll come as Shira.”

Miriam’s relief was immediate, but Raven raised one finger.

“On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“If your mother feeds me until I can no longer move, you must help me escape.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“Then I must prepare for the worst.”

The preparations took longer than Miriam had anticipated.

Raven stood in front of her wardrobe the following afternoon, surveying her clothes with the expression of a general who had discovered that the army had been issued the wrong uniforms.

“I own several black skirts,” she announced. “Unfortunately, they all look like something worn by a Victorian governess who has recently murdered her employer.”

Miriam, sitting cross-legged on the bed, examined one.

“It’s a perfectly respectable skirt.”

“It’s also made of enough fabric to conceal a small orchestra.”

“Then you won’t be cold.”

Raven turned to her.

“You are a formidable stylist.”

“I’ve learned from the best.”

“Clearly.”

They decided that Raven would wear a long, dark navy skirt, a white blouse with long sleeves and a high neckline, and a soft grey cardigan. Miriam lent her a dark blue scarf, which they practised tying in several different ways until Raven managed one that looked natural rather than theatrical.

The outfit was modest, neat and entirely ordinary. It was also very different from Raven’s usual black layers, ripped hems and dramatic accessories.

Then came the question of her hair.

Raven’s purple hair had become such a familiar part of her appearance that Miriam found it difficult to imagine her without it. They tried the scarf with her hair loose underneath, but a bright purple lock escaped near her ear.

“That’s not going to work,” Raven said.

“It looks nice.”

“It looks nice in the same way that a neon sign reading ‘I am concealing something’ looks nice.”

They tried pinning her hair up beneath the scarf. That worked better, but the bulk at the back made the whole arrangement look rather peculiar.

Eventually Raven borrowed a simple undercap and a larger scarf, and they practised until all the purple hair was covered securely and comfortably.

Raven inspected herself in the mirror.

“Well. I look like someone’s cousin from a very respectable neighbourhood.”

“You look lovely.”

“I look like I might be asked to organise the women’s section at a synagogue.”

“You would probably do it very efficiently.”

“I would demand a timetable and proper signage.”

Miriam laughed.

The piercings presented another problem. Raven removed her visible earrings and nose ring, and they carefully checked the small holes. A little makeup softened the appearance of the ones that were still noticeable.

Miriam watched her in the mirror.

“Are you all right with this?”

Raven met her eyes in the reflection.

“Yes. It’s a few hours, and I’m choosing to do it. I’m not renouncing my entire wardrobe.”

“I don’t want you to feel that you have to pretend.”

“I’m not pretending to be someone else. I’m choosing which version of myself to introduce to your parents first.”

She adjusted the scarf.

“Besides, I was once an Orthodox girl from Jerusalem. I know how to dress the part. The muscle memory is remarkable.”

Miriam smiled, though she felt a small pang of guilt.

Raven noticed.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“You invited me because you wanted me to meet your family. I said yes because I want to meet them. We’re figuring out a way to make that work. You haven’t asked me to betray myself.”

Miriam nodded.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, please tell me whether this scarf makes me look like a respectable young woman or a respectable young woman who has come to repossess someone’s furniture.”

Miriam examined her.

“The first one.”

“Good. I would hate to arrive with an aura of debt collection.”

On Friday afternoon, Miriam’s mother was preparing for Shabbat when Miriam entered the kitchen with a young woman beside her.

“Imma, this is my friend Shira.”

Raven smiled politely.

“Shabbat shalom. Thank you for inviting me.”

Miriam’s mother turned from the counter.

For a moment, she simply looked at her.

Shira was neatly dressed, her hair covered, her clothes modest and understated. She stood straight but not stiffly, and her greeting was warm without being overfamiliar. There was nothing about her appearance that suggested the surprising person she was outside the house.

“Shabbat shalom, Shira,” Miriam’s mother said. “It’s lovely to meet you. Miriam hasn’t brought a friend home in ages.”

“Imma,” Miriam protested.

“What? It’s true.”

Raven lowered her eyes with a modest smile, concealing a flicker of amusement.

“I hope I’m not arriving at a bad time.”

“Not at all! Come in, come in. Miriam, why didn’t you tell me she was coming? I would have made something special.”

“You’ve made enough food for twelve people.”

“That’s different.”

Miriam exchanged a glance with Raven. They had discussed this possibility.

Raven accepted a glass of water and followed Miriam into the living room, where her father was reading. He stood to greet her.

“Shira? What do you do?”

“I’m studying part-time at the moment, and I do some freelance work,” Raven replied. “I also volunteer with a small community group.”

It was not an untrue answer. She simply didn’t mention the coven.

“And how do you know Miriam?”

“We met on a bus,” Raven said. “She was having a difficult day, and we started talking. Since then we’ve become friends.”

Miriam’s father looked at his daughter.

“You never told us that.”

“I didn’t think it was a very interesting story.”

“It sounds like a very nice story,” her mother called from the kitchen.

And, to Miriam’s surprise, that was that.

No interrogation. No suspicious questions about why they had met, or whether Shira came from a good family. No demand for references from a matchmaker.

Her father asked Raven about her studies. Raven asked him about the book he was reading. Within minutes, they were discussing a historical figure whose name Miriam had not heard since school.

Miriam sat on the sofa, watching.

She had expected to spend the entire visit managing the situation: smoothing over awkward questions, protecting Raven from her parents’ assumptions, and protecting her parents from the parts of Raven that might surprise them.

Instead, Raven was perfectly capable of managing a conversation on her own.

She was polite without being meek, interested without being intrusive, and funny without making anyone the target of the joke.

When Miriam’s mother brought in a plate of biscuits, Raven thanked her and asked for the recipe for the little almond pastries.

“They’re my mother’s recipe,” Miriam’s mother said, pleased. “I’ll write it down for you.”

“Thank you. I love learning family recipes.”

That, at least, was entirely true. Raven loved recipes, folklore, family traditions and the strange ways that ordinary objects accumulated meaning over time.

Miriam watched her mother look at Shira with growing warmth.

It was almost unnerving.

By the time they sat down to supper, Miriam’s mother had decided that Shira was a delightful young woman.

She was attentive during the blessings, joined the conversation easily, and asked Miriam’s father a thoughtful question about something he had said earlier. She listened when Miriam’s mother spoke about a cousin who was having a difficult time, and she did not interrupt to offer unsolicited advice.

When Miriam’s little nephew, who had come over with his parents before Shabbat, began explaining at great length why a particular toy dinosaur was scientifically superior to all other dinosaurs, Raven listened with the gravity the subject apparently deserved.

“That’s an excellent argument,” she told him. “But have you considered that the triceratops might win by sheer stubbornness?”

The boy stared at her.

Then he launched into a ten-minute explanation of triceratops.

Miriam’s mother watched them with a smile.

“She’s good with children,” she whispered to Miriam while they cleared the plates.

“Yes,” Miriam said. “She is.”

“And she seems to listen properly. Not everyone does that.”

Miriam felt a warmth in her chest.

“No. Not everyone.”

Her mother lowered her voice further.

“I’m so glad you’ve found a friend like her.”

Miriam glanced towards the dining room, where Raven was helping her father carry the last of the dishes to the kitchen.

“Me too.”

Her mother gave her arm a gentle squeeze.

“You know, a good friend is a real blessing. Especially a friend who makes you happy.”

Miriam swallowed.

For years, the conversations between her and her mother had circled around the same subject: the next suggestion, the next date, the next possibility. Her mother loved her, but their concern for Miriam’s future had sometimes crowded out the present.

Now her mother was happy because Miriam had a friend.

Not a potential husband. Not a matchmaker’s promising introduction. A friend.

It felt like a door opening.

Later, after the meal, Miriam’s mother sat with Shira in the living room while Miriam helped her father put away some things in the kitchen.

“I hope you’ll come again,” her mother said.

“I’d like that very much.”

“You know, Miriam has been happier lately.”

Raven listened.

“She has?”

“Yes. She’s been going out more. She bought herself some new clothes the other day, and she seems to have a little more energy. I don’t know whether that’s connected to you, but I’m glad.”

Raven chose her words carefully.

“I think she’s beginning to give herself permission to enjoy things.”

Miriam’s mother considered that.

“She’s always been a good girl. Very responsible. Sometimes I worry she takes things too much to heart.”

“She cares a lot,” Raven said. “That’s a good quality, but it can be hard when someone feels responsible for everything.”

Miriam’s mother looked at her with genuine appreciation.

“You understand her.”

Raven felt a small, unexpected ache.

She had not expected to enjoy this visit as much as she did. She had prepared herself for a certain stiffness, perhaps some awkwardness, perhaps the sense of being tolerated because she was Miriam’s friend.

Instead, she had been offered tea, food, questions about her life, and a place at the table.

There was something familiar about the rhythms of the house: the way Miriam’s mother fussed over everyone, the way her father had made room for another chair without comment, the way the meal had gathered everyone into a shared story.

Raven remembered being Shira. She remembered her own family’s Friday-night table, the songs, the familiar blessings, the warmth of the room. She did not suddenly believe again. Nothing in her mind had changed about God, revelation or the nature of the universe.

But the old memories had not become meaningless just because her beliefs had changed.

Perhaps that was why she was careful when she answered.

“I think Miriam is a very good person,” she said. “She deserves to have people around her who appreciate her.”

Miriam’s mother nodded.

“She does.”

Then she added, with the gentle certainty of someone who believed she had made a very good discovery, “You know, Shira, I think you’re exactly the kind of friend Miriam needs.”

Raven smiled.

“That’s very kind of you to say.”

When Miriam walked Raven to the bus stop after Shabbat, the streets were quiet and the air had cooled.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Miriam said, “I’m sorry.”

Raven turned towards her.

“For what?”

“For asking you to hide your hair. For making you remove your piercings. For introducing you as Shira.”

Raven was silent for a moment.

“I did wonder whether it might feel strange to hear that name again.”

“Did it?”

“Yes. A little. But not in a bad way.”

She tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat.

“Shira is part of my history. I don’t hate her. I don’t want to be her again, but I don’t have to erase her either.”

Miriam looked at her.

“Are you angry with me?”

“No.” Raven smiled. “You were trying to make room for me in your world. We found a way that felt comfortable enough for both of us. That’s what friends do.”

Miriam let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.

“Imma really likes you.”

“I noticed. I believe I have been provisionally adopted.”

“She said you’re a good Jewish girl.”

Raven burst out laughing.

“Oh, Miriam.”

“I know.”

“Your mother has no idea.”

“No,” Miriam admitted. “She doesn’t.”

Raven was quiet for a moment, then said, “She was kind to me. I liked her.”

“She liked you too. She thinks you’re exactly the friend I need.”

Raven’s expression softened.

“That’s rather lovely.”

“It is.”

They reached the bus stop. Raven would take off the scarf and put her piercings back in when she got home. Miriam would return to her parents’ house, where her mother would probably talk about Shira for the next several days.

Neither of them knew how to explain the friendship to Miriam’s family in all its complexity. There would be time for that, perhaps, as trust grew and the shape of their friendship became more familiar.

For now, Miriam had been able to bring someone she loved into her home, and that person had been welcomed.

It was a small victory, but it mattered.

On Sunday morning, Miriam’s mother found her in the kitchen.

“Shira is a lovely girl,” she said, without preamble.

Miriam smiled into her tea.

“Yes, she is.”

“Well brought up. Thoughtful. Very pleasant. And you seem happy with her.”

“I am.”

Her mother hesitated, then added, “You know, I think it’s important for you to have friends. Not just acquaintances. People you can talk to, who understand you.”

Miriam looked up.

“Yes.”

“And don’t worry. I’m not going to ask whether she knows any suitable young men.”

Miriam stared at her.

Her mother laughed.

“What? I can learn.”

Miriam laughed too, and then, unexpectedly, felt tears prick her eyes.

Her mother reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“Oh, darling. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just glad.”

Her mother stroked her hand.

“Then that’s enough.”

For once, it really was.

Miriam went about her day with a strange lightness. She still wanted marriage. She still hoped that one day a man would look at her and choose her, and that she would build the Jewish home she had always imagined.

But she was beginning to understand that being chosen by a future husband was not the only way to be welcomed into someone’s life.

Her parents had welcomed Shira.

Raven had welcomed Miriam into her world.

And somewhere between the two, Miriam was building a life that had room for friendship, laughter, good food, dark skirts, ridiculous conversations and people who cared about her without asking what she could offer them in return.

She had not stopped waiting for the future she wanted.

She had simply begun to notice the people who were already there.
Miriam had been thinking about the question for three days before she asked it.

This was not unusual. Since meeting Raven, she had discovered that there were a great many things she wanted to ask her friend, and that some of them required considerably more courage than others.

She could ask Raven whether she preferred tea or coffee, whether she thought a particular skirt was too formal, or whether a book about medieval Jewish women was worth reading. She could even ask what it was like to stop believing in God.

But there were other questions. Questions about the world Raven inhabited, about the years Miriam had spent avoiding certain subjects, and about the experiences people her age seemed to discuss so casually.

The question finally emerged one Wednesday evening while they were sitting on Raven’s sofa.

They had spent the afternoon browsing a second-hand bookshop and had returned with a collection of books, two pastries and a bag of oranges that Raven had bought because the fruit seller had seemed lonely.

Raven was peeling an orange.

Miriam was watching her.

“Can I ask you something rather personal?”

“Certainly.”

“You might not want to answer.”

“That is also true.”

Miriam took a breath.

“Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

Raven paused with the orange halfway peeled.

“Yes.”

Miriam felt a strange mixture of relief and apprehension.

“Oh.”

Raven looked at her.

“Was that the whole question, or was there a second instalment?”

Miriam’s face became hot.

“There was a second instalment.”

“I thought there might be.”

Miriam stared at the cushion beside her.

“Have you ever… done it?”

Raven didn’t pretend not to understand.

“Had sex?”

Miriam nodded.

“Yes,” Raven said gently. “I have.”

Miriam felt herself blush more deeply.

“Sorry. That was terribly nosy.”

“It was personal. That’s not quite the same thing as nosy.” Raven finished peeling the orange and divided it into segments. “You asked me rather than making an assumption. I appreciate that.”

She offered Miriam a segment.

Miriam took it.

For a moment, she considered asking something else, but Raven was looking at her with the familiar expression that meant she was willing to listen without forcing her to speak.

“Was it…?” Miriam began, then stopped.

“Was it what?”

“Was it important?”

Raven thought about that.

“Sometimes. Sometimes it was lovely. Sometimes it was awkward. Once, it was with someone I liked very much, but we weren’t very good at understanding each other. We cared about each other, but we wanted different things, and eventually that became more obvious than the things we had in common.”

She leaned back against the sofa.

“I’ve had one serious boyfriend and a couple of shorter relationships. I learned things about myself. Some of them were good lessons. Some were lessons I would have preferred to learn in a less embarrassing way.”

Miriam smiled.

“Such as?”

“That a man can be very articulate about his feelings and still be astonishingly bad at listening to yours.”

“That sounds useful.”

“It was, eventually.”

Raven paused.

“I don’t want you to think that because I’ve had sex, I have some special wisdom about it. I don’t. I’m just a person who has had some experiences. Other people have different experiences, and that’s all right too.”

Miriam nodded slowly.

She had expected Raven to be either very casual about sex or very serious about it, perhaps even to make a point about how much more freely she lived than Miriam did.

Instead, Raven seemed to regard it as one part of a life, neither a sacred mystery nor an achievement to boast about.

“Can I ask you another question?” Miriam said.

“You’re on a roll.”

“Did you regret it?”

Raven considered her answer carefully.

“I’ve regretted particular situations. I’ve regretted not saying what I wanted clearly enough, and I’ve regretted being too concerned with whether someone liked me to notice whether I actually liked him. But I don’t regret having had sex. It was something I chose, and it was part of my life.”

She looked at Miriam.

“That doesn’t mean I think everyone should do it, or that someone who chooses not to is missing something essential.”

Miriam turned the orange segment between her fingers.

“I suppose I don’t know what I think about it. Not really.”

“That’s allowed.”

“It’s difficult to know what you think when you’ve been told your whole life that it belongs in one particular place.”

“Marriage?”

Miriam nodded.

“In marriage, between a husband and wife. And not before. It’s not just a rule. It’s part of how you understand a life. You build a home, you make a commitment, you share everything. Sex belongs there.”

Raven listened.

“And you believe that?” she asked.

Miriam hesitated.

“I think I believe it. I mean, I believe in keeping the halakhic rules. But I don’t know whether I believe sex can only be meaningful in marriage. I don’t know whether that’s the same question.”

Raven smiled slightly.

“Those are two different questions.”

“I know. That’s what makes it difficult.”

“Well, we don’t have to solve them tonight.”

Miriam looked up, grateful that Raven had not immediately launched into an argument.

“But I’d like to understand how you think about it,” she said. “Not because I want to do what you do. I just want to know how you see it.”

“All right.”

Raven set the orange peel aside.

“For me, sex is something people can share when they feel desire, affection, trust, curiosity, or some combination of those things. It can be a way of expressing love. It can be pleasurable. It can be intimate in a way that words aren’t. But it doesn’t automatically create love, and it doesn’t guarantee that two people will understand each other.”

She paused.

“And it doesn’t have to be the most important thing in a relationship. Some people have a great deal of sex and are lonely together. Some have very little sex and feel deeply connected. Some people don’t want sex at all. I don’t think there’s one universal measure of how much sex a person ought to want.”

Miriam was quiet.

“Then how do you know when it’s right?”

Raven considered her.

“I don’t think there’s a single answer. But I think there are some important questions. Do you genuinely want it? Do you feel safe saying no? Can you talk honestly about what you want and don’t want? Are you being treated as a person rather than as a means to something else? And are you making the choice because you want to, rather than because you’re afraid of losing someone?”

She gave Miriam a small, wry smile.

“Those questions aren’t exclusive to sex, by the way. They’re useful for relationships generally.”

Miriam thought about that for a long time.

“Do you think people can love each other without having sex?”

“Of course.”

“Even if they’re married?”

“Of course.”

Miriam looked at Raven with surprise.

“I thought you might say that sex was necessary for a relationship.”

“Necessary for every relationship? No. That would be a rather strange claim, considering how differently people experience desire.”

Raven reached for another orange segment.

“Sex can matter enormously to someone. It can be one of the main ways they feel loved, or one of the things that makes a romantic relationship distinct from other relationships. For someone else, it may be less important, or not important at all. People are different.”

Miriam looked down at her hands.

“What happens when two people are different in that way?”

“You mean when one wants sex more than the other?”

Miriam nodded.

“Then they have something important to work through. They have to be honest with each other, and they have to take both people’s feelings seriously. Nobody should feel pressured into sex they don’t want, and nobody should be expected to pretend that an important need doesn’t matter to them.”

Raven’s voice was calm, without any hint of accusation.

“Sometimes couples find a way to make things work. Sometimes they discover that the difference is too painful. There’s no magic formula that makes two people perfectly compatible.”

Miriam felt a little chill, though she couldn’t have explained why.

She had always imagined that marriage would solve certain uncertainties. Once she had a husband, there would be a proper place for affection, for physical intimacy, for the private things that she had never discussed with anyone.

She had not thought much about what would happen if two people experienced those things differently.

In her mind, marriage had been both a destination and a promise: the promise that, once she arrived, the longing she felt now would finally have somewhere to go.

“Do you think sex is what makes a marriage different from a friendship?” she asked.

Raven shook her head.

“Not by itself. People can have sex without being married. People can be married and have very little sex. What makes a marriage different depends on the people in it, and on the commitments they make to each other.”

“But isn’t there something unique about it?”

“Yes, there can be. Physical intimacy can make a relationship feel distinctive and deeply personal. But I don’t think it helps to treat sex as a magic substance that transforms two people into something completely different.”

Miriam smiled faintly.

“A magic substance. You really are the witch here.”

“Please. If I had magic, I’d use it to make my laundry fold itself.”

Miriam laughed, and the tension eased.

Then Raven grew thoughtful.

“I think there’s another thing worth saying. Sometimes people are taught that sex is so powerful, so dangerous, so significant, that they end up imagining it as the central fact of adult life. Other people are taught that it is casual and unimportant, and they can feel foolish for wanting it to mean something.”

She shrugged.

“I don’t think either approach does justice to how varied people are. Sex can be deeply meaningful. It can also be ordinary. It can be joyful, confusing, tender, disappointing, funny, or several of those things in the same evening. What matters is how the people involved experience it, and how they treat each other.”

Miriam looked at her.

“Funny?”

“Oh, absolutely. Human bodies are not elegant philosophical propositions. Sometimes people bump into furniture. Sometimes someone gets a cramp. Sometimes you discover that the romantic music you carefully selected is actually the soundtrack to a television advert because you forgot to turn off the television.”

Miriam burst out laughing.

“Stop!”

“I’m merely defending the dignity of ordinary human experience.”

“You are not defending anything. You’re destroying all mystery.”

“Good. Mystery is overrated. Kindness and communication are much more useful.”

After a while, Miriam asked the question that had been sitting beneath all the others.

“Do you ever feel that you’re missing out on something?”

Raven turned towards her.

“Because I’m not in a relationship now?”

“Because you’ve had relationships, but you don’t seem to think you need to be in one to have a good life.”

Raven considered that.

“Sometimes I miss having someone to share things with. Someone who knows the small details of my day, who understands why a particular song matters to me, who notices when I’m tired before I admit it. I miss being held by someone I trust.”

Miriam listened, surprised by the vulnerability in her voice.

“But I don’t think a romantic relationship is the only way to have closeness,” Raven continued. “And I don’t want to be with someone just because being single makes me feel that I’m failing at life.”

She glanced at Miriam.

“Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I’m not suggesting that wanting a partner is a weakness. I want love, too. I just don’t want the absence of a partner to become a verdict on my worth.”

Miriam felt the words settle somewhere deep inside her.

It was almost exactly what she had been trying to learn, but hearing it expressed so plainly made it feel possible.

“I think I have treated marriage as proof that someone wants me,” she said.

Raven did not interrupt.

“Not just that he wants to marry me. That he wants me. That he has looked at me and decided I’m worth choosing. And because nobody has chosen me yet, I keep thinking there must be something wrong with me.”

She swallowed.

“I know that sounds irrational.”

“It sounds painful.”

Miriam looked at her.

Raven continued gently.

“You’ve been through years of a process in which people meet you and then decide whether they want to meet you again. It’s understandable that you might begin to experience that as a judgement on you. But the process is not the same thing as your worth.”

“I know you keep telling me that.”

“I do.”

“And I keep forgetting.”

“Then I’ll keep reminding you. That’s one of the privileges of friendship.”

Miriam smiled, but her eyes were wet.

“I suppose part of me thinks that if I could just be more attractive, or more interesting, or more confident, then someone would want me. And then I’d finally be allowed to feel good about myself.”

Raven was quiet for a moment.

“Can I tell you something I learned from dating?”

“Please.”

“Sometimes you can do everything you think you’re supposed to do and someone still won’t want you. Sometimes you can be kind, funny, attractive, attentive, and genuinely interested in someone, and the chemistry just isn’t there. Or they’re not ready for a relationship. Or they want something different. And sometimes someone will like you for reasons you never anticipated.”

She leaned forward.

“The trouble is that if you believe rejection means you failed an examination, you’ll spend your life trying to work out what answer you should have given. But dating isn’t an examination with a hidden marking scheme.”

Miriam let out a slow breath.

“I wish I’d understood that years ago.”

“So do I,” Raven said. “For both of us.”

They sat quietly for a while.

Miriam thought about the dates she had been on: the polite conversations, the strained silences, the men who had been perfectly decent but had not wanted to see her again. She had replayed those meetings so many times that they had become a kind of evidence against her.

She had never considered that they might simply have been meetings between people who had not been right for each other.

That did not make the loneliness disappear. But it made it feel a little less like a personal defect.

Eventually, Miriam asked, “Can I tell you something embarrassing?”

“Of course.”

“I’m frightened of sex.”

Raven’s expression softened.

“What frightens you about it?”

Miriam thought carefully.

“I don’t know. The physical side, I suppose. The fact that I’ve never done it. The idea that I’ll be expected to know what to do, or that my husband will know what to do, and that it will all be terribly awkward. And what if I don’t like it? Or what if I do, and then I’m supposed to know how to talk about that?”

She looked down at her hands.

“I’ve been taught to be careful about these things. To preserve something for marriage. But nobody really talks about what happens afterwards. At least, not in a way that makes it feel ordinary.”

Raven nodded slowly.

“That makes sense. If something is surrounded by silence for years, it’s easy to imagine that everyone else has been given a secret manual that you somehow missed.”

Miriam laughed weakly.

“Exactly.”

“But you don’t have to know everything in advance. People learn together. They talk, they make mistakes, they work things out. A good partner won’t expect you to arrive with a complete instruction manual.”

Miriam smiled.

“And what if we’re both awkward?”

“Then you’ll be awkward together. There’s a great deal to be said for being with someone who can laugh with you, rather than making you feel that you have failed.”

Miriam thought about that.

“What if I don’t want it as much as he does?”

“Then you both deserve to be able to talk about that honestly. You don’t owe anyone sex just because you’re married. And you don’t have to decide in advance what your desire will be like. You may discover things about yourself that surprise you.”

Raven paused.

“There’s also nothing wrong with wanting to take things slowly, even after marriage. You can have boundaries. You can ask questions. You can change your mind. Being married doesn’t make your feelings irrelevant.”

Miriam looked up sharply.

“Some people would say that sounds rather modern.”

“Perhaps. But I think treating your spouse as a person whose feelings matter is a fairly good principle in any century.”

Miriam smiled.

“You’re very difficult to argue with.”

“I’m told it’s one of my less attractive qualities.”

“No, I think it’s rather attractive.”

Raven raised an eyebrow.

“Careful. Compliments like that will go straight to my head.”

As the evening drew on, the conversation wandered into other things. They talked about love, friendship, family, and the different ways people built lives together. Raven told Miriam about a couple she knew who had been together for years and seemed happiest when they were doing separate things in the same room. Miriam told Raven about an elderly couple in her neighbourhood who still walked to the bakery together every Friday, holding hands.

“They barely speak,” Miriam said. “But they always walk together.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“I think so too.”

Raven smiled.

“Perhaps that’s what intimacy is, in part. Knowing someone well enough that you don’t have to fill every silence.”

Miriam glanced at her.

“Like us?”

“Exactly like us.”

For a moment, Miriam felt a warmth that was almost startling in its intensity.

She loved her family. She loved the idea of a future husband and children, of Shabbat tables full of conversation, of a home in which she would build a life with someone. But she had begun to discover another kind of closeness: a friendship in which she could ask embarrassing questions, admit uncertainty, laugh at herself, and be taken seriously without being judged.

It did not replace the future she wanted.

It made the present less lonely.

When she finally stood to leave, Raven walked her to the door.

“Thank you for answering my questions,” Miriam said.

“Thank you for asking them.”

“Do you think it’s strange that I wanted to know?”

“Not at all. You’re curious about something important, and you trust me enough to ask. That’s a good thing.”

Miriam hesitated.

“I think I’ve always been afraid that if I talked about sex too openly, it would mean I wasn’t serious about my values.”

Raven shook her head.

“Understanding something isn’t the same as choosing to do it. You can ask questions about the world and still decide how you want to live.”

Miriam smiled.

“I suppose that’s true.”

“And you can keep your boundaries without being frightened of the subject.”

Miriam nodded.

She stepped into the corridor, then turned back.

“Raven?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re my friend.”

For once, Raven did not make a joke.

“I’m glad you’re mine too.”

Miriam walked home beneath the Jerusalem streetlights, thinking about what they had discussed.

She had not abandoned any of her beliefs. She still intended to keep halakha, and she still hoped that one day she would share the private intimacy of marriage with a man she loved. She did not suddenly know what sex would mean to her, or how she would experience it, or what kind of husband she would eventually find.

But she no longer felt that the subject had to be surrounded by fear and silence.

It was part of being human. Something people approached in different ways, with different hopes, boundaries and experiences. It could be meaningful without being magical, pleasurable without being trivial, important without being the only thing that mattered.

And perhaps, she thought, the most important lesson was not about sex at all.

It was that she could ask a difficult question without being shamed for asking it.

She could admit that she did not know something without feeling that she was somehow deficient.

She could be curious about other people’s lives without having to abandon her own.

For a woman who had spent years believing that she needed to become someone else before she could be loved, these were surprisingly profound discoveries.

When she reached home, her mother asked whether she had enjoyed her evening.

“Yes,” Miriam said, hanging up her coat.

“Did you and Shira have a good time?”

Miriam smiled.

“We talked.”

Her mother nodded, apparently satisfied.

“Good. It’s important to have someone you can talk to.”

Miriam went to her room, changed into her comfortable pyjamas, and climbed into bed.

Then she sent Raven a message.

Thank you for letting me ask you things.

The reply arrived a minute later.

You never need to earn permission to be curious, Miriam.

Miriam read it twice.

Then she put down her phone, turned off the light, and lay quietly in the dark.

She was still waiting for love in one form.

But she was beginning to recognise it in another.

Miriam was eating a cinnamon biscuit when Raven noticed the young man.

They were sitting on their usual bench in the park, enjoying a mild afternoon in Jerusalem. Raven had brought a book about the history of witchcraft, which she had been reading aloud in increasingly theatrical voices. Miriam had brought sandwiches, because Raven’s definition of a picnic appeared to be a packet of biscuits and the optimistic assumption that food would somehow materialise.

“You cannot sustain yourself on biscuits,” Miriam had told her.

“Not with that attitude.”

“Raven.”

“I am perfectly capable of sustaining myself on biscuits. The question is whether society is ready to accept my methods.”

Miriam had been laughing when the young man appeared on the path.

He was tall and thin, with dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and an appearance that Miriam immediately recognised as Orthodox Jewish, although there was something unusual about him.

He wore a dark green suit. Not black, not charcoal, but a deep, almost forest green that caught the afternoon light. His shirt was white, and his bow tie was a muted shade of gold. On his head sat a fedora in a very dark plum colour, so deep that it might have been mistaken for black in a dim room.

He was dressed perfectly respectably, but with a quiet, deliberate individuality. His clothes looked carefully chosen rather than simply selected from the conventional uniform.

He seemed to be looking for someone.

Then his eyes settled on Miriam.

He hesitated, glanced at the bench, and walked towards them.

Miriam stopped chewing.

Raven noticed at once.

“Are you all right?” she murmured.

Miriam nodded, though she had no idea why her heart had suddenly begun beating faster.

The young man stopped a short distance from the bench.

“Excuse me,” he said. His voice was calm, a little tentative. “Are you Miriam?”

Miriam stared at him.

“Yes.”

“My name is Eitan.” He smiled, a little nervously. “I hope you don’t mind my approaching you like this.”

“No,” Miriam said automatically.

Then she wondered whether that had been too enthusiastic.

Eitan seemed to be having similar difficulties with the mechanics of conversation. He glanced briefly at Raven, who regarded him with the alert, slightly amused expression of a woman who had just realised that something interesting was about to happen.

“I’ve seen you here a few times,” he explained. “And I’ve been meaning to introduce myself.”

Miriam felt the world become strangely quiet.

He had seen her here.

He had noticed her.

He had remembered her.

“And I wondered,” he continued, “whether you might be willing to go out with me sometime. Perhaps for coffee?”

For a second, Miriam could not make sense of the words.

She had imagined this moment hundreds of times, in different forms. Sometimes she had imagined a young man being introduced to her by a matchmaker. Sometimes she had imagined a phone call from her mother announcing that a promising suggestion had finally appeared. Occasionally, in her more fanciful moments, she had imagined someone simply approaching her because he wanted to know her.

But in all those imagined scenes, there had been an explanation. A matchmaker’s recommendation, a family connection, some recognised reason why a man might have considered her worth approaching.

This was different.

There was no intermediary. No carefully assembled résumé. No prior conversation in which someone had decided whether she was suitable.

A young man had seen her sitting in a park and had come over because he wanted to ask her out.

She opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Eitan’s nervousness increased.

“Of course, if you’re not interested, that’s completely fine. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“No!” Miriam said.

Both Eitan and Raven looked at her.

Miriam felt her face turn scarlet.

“I mean—no, you’re not making me uncomfortable. I would be happy to. To go for coffee, I mean.”

Eitan’s expression changed. The tension left his shoulders, and his smile became genuine.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful.”

He looked so pleased that Miriam felt a small, unexpected surge of confidence.

She had said yes. He was happy that she had said yes.

It seemed almost too simple.

Eitan took a small card from his jacket pocket.

“May I give you my number? Or would you prefer to give me yours?”

Miriam gave him her number, trying very hard not to look as though this were the most extraordinary thing that had ever happened to her.

He repeated it carefully to make sure he had entered it correctly.

“Would next Sunday work for you? Perhaps somewhere near the centre of town?”

“I think so.”

“Excellent. I’ll message you, and we can work out the details.”

He paused.

“It was nice meeting you, Miriam.”

“You too.”

He gave Raven a polite nod.

“Thank you. Have a good afternoon.”

“You too,” Raven replied, with impeccable courtesy.

Eitan walked away along the path, his plum-coloured hat disappearing gradually among the trees.

Miriam watched him go.

Then she turned to Raven.

Neither spoke.

Miriam looked at Raven.

Raven looked at Miriam.

Then Raven put down her book.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Oh, Miriam.”

Miriam covered her face with both hands.

“He asked me out.”

“He did.”

“He actually asked me out.”

“That does appear to be what happened.”

Miriam made a small, helpless noise.

Raven leaned forward, grinning.

“Darling, I believe you have just been asked on a date.”

“I know!”

“By a real person.”

“I know!”

“Without a matchmaker.”

“Raven!”

“I am merely establishing the facts.”

Miriam began to laugh. She was laughing so hard that she could barely speak, and then, to her own surprise, she began to cry.

Raven’s expression softened immediately.

“Hey. Come here.”

Miriam leaned against her, laughing and crying at the same time.

“I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“Because something you’ve wanted for a very long time just happened, and your brain is probably trying to process it all at once.”

Miriam wiped her eyes with a tissue Raven produced from her bag. Raven always seemed to have tissues, biscuits, plasters and at least one completely inexplicable object in her bag.

“I’ve never been asked out before,” Miriam whispered.

“I know.”

“Not once. Not by anyone.”

Raven took her hand.

“Well, someone just did.”

Miriam looked towards the path where Eitan had disappeared.

“He seemed nice.”

“He did.”

“And he was nervous.”

“He was.”

“Do you think he really meant it?”

Raven looked at her steadily.

“Miriam, he walked up to you, introduced himself, and asked whether you would like to spend time with him. I see no evidence that he was conducting a social experiment.”

Miriam laughed through her tears.

“But what if he changes his mind?”

“Then he’ll change his mind. And you’ll be disappointed, which will be unpleasant. But it won’t erase the fact that he wanted to ask you in the first place.”

Miriam absorbed that.

Raven squeezed her hand.

“You don’t have to turn this into a verdict on your entire future. You can just let it be a nice thing that happened today.”

Miriam nodded, although she was not at all certain she could manage that.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing a blue blouse, a long navy skirt and comfortable shoes. Her hair was neatly pinned, and she had put on the small silver pendant Raven had helped her choose.

She had not dressed for a date. She had not been trying to impress anyone. She had been eating a biscuit in a park, talking nonsense with her friend.

And someone had noticed her.

Not a carefully prepared version of her, not a photograph sent through a matchmaker, not a list of qualifications and family details.

Her.

“Do you think it was the pendant?” she asked.

Raven stared at her.

“What?”

“The pendant. Maybe he noticed it.”

“Miriam.”

“I’m just wondering.”

“He may have noticed your pendant. He may have noticed your face, your smile, your clothes, the way you were laughing. He may have seen you here before and wanted to meet you. We have no idea.”

Miriam nodded.

“And we don’t need to know yet,” Raven added. “You can ask him about it if you like.”

Miriam looked horrified.

“I can’t ask him that!”

“Of course you can. You can also ask him whether he has a secret identity, whether his hat is sentient, or whether he always dresses like a very elegant woodland creature.”

Miriam laughed.

“His suit was lovely.”

“It was. The green was an excellent choice.”

“And the hat.”

“The hat was particularly good. I respect a man who understands that the world contains colours other than black.”

Miriam smiled.

For a while, they sat in silence. The park had continued around them, indifferent to the small upheaval in Miriam’s life. Children played near the path. A dog chased a ball. Somewhere, a bicycle bell rang.

Miriam felt as though she had stepped into a new room and had not yet worked out where to put her feet.

“I need to tell my mother,” she said.

Raven nodded.

“Eventually.”

“I can’t just not tell her.”

“No, but you also don’t have to tell her before you’ve even received his message. Let yourself have the afternoon first.”

Miriam took a breath.

“All right.”

She picked up her sandwich, then put it down again.

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

“That’s how I know this is serious. You have rejected a sandwich.”

Miriam laughed.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

The message arrived that evening, just as Miriam was helping her mother put away the dishes.

Her phone vibrated on the kitchen counter.

She glanced at it, expecting Raven to have sent another joke about the mysterious man in the green suit.

Instead, the screen displayed an unfamiliar number.

Hello Miriam, this is Eitan from the park. I hope I’m not messaging too late. I enjoyed meeting you today. Would Sunday afternoon work for coffee? I know a quiet place near the centre that serves good coffee and has a nice outdoor seating area. If you’d prefer somewhere else, that’s absolutely fine.

Miriam read it once.

Then again.

Then she put down the dish towel and read it a third time.

Her mother noticed.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes,” Miriam said quickly.

Her mother looked at her.

“Miriam?”

Miriam felt herself smiling, and there was no way to hide it.

“I met someone today.”

Her mother’s hands stopped moving.

“Someone?”

“A young man. In the park.”

Her mother turned fully towards her.

“What do you mean, in the park?”

“He came over and introduced himself. His name is Eitan. He asked me if I’d like to go for coffee.”

For a moment, her mother said nothing.

Then her face lit up.

“He asked you?”

Miriam nodded.

“He just came over?”

“Yes.”

“And asked you out?”

“Yes, Imma.”

Her mother clasped her hands together.

“Oh, Miriam!”

She crossed the kitchen and hugged her daughter.

Miriam hugged her back, laughing.

“I’m happy for you, darling. I’m so happy.”

“Imma, we haven’t even been on the date yet.”

“I know, I know. I’m not planning the wedding.”

Miriam raised an eyebrow.

Her mother hesitated.

“Not tonight.”

They both laughed.

Then her mother stepped back and looked at her carefully.

“Are you pleased?”

Miriam thought about the question.

She was excited. She was frightened. She was already imagining awkward silences, discovering that they had nothing in common, or finding out that Eitan had asked her out on an impulse he would later regret.

But beneath all of that was a feeling she had almost forgotten how to recognise.

Hope.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m really pleased.”

Her mother hugged her again.

“Then that’s all we need to know for now.”

Miriam looked down at her phone.

She still needed to reply.

Her first draft was too enthusiastic. Her second was so formal that it sounded like a letter to a prospective employer. Her third contained an unnecessary apology for not having answered sooner, even though only four minutes had passed.

Eventually, she settled on something simple.

Hello Eitan. Thank you for your message. Sunday afternoon would be lovely. The place you suggested sounds nice. I look forward to meeting you.

She read it over, took a breath, and pressed send.

The message changed to Delivered.

Miriam stared at the screen.

Then she put the phone down and went back to the dishes.

She had a date on Sunday.

A real date, with a young man who had approached her because he wanted to meet her.

She was still the same Miriam who had never had a second date, who had cried on the bus after leaving the matchmaker’s apartment, who sometimes looked at herself in the mirror and wondered what was wrong with her.

But something had happened that did not fit the story she had been telling herself.

Perhaps she had been wrong to assume that no one would ever choose her.

Perhaps she did not have to understand why Eitan had approached her before she was allowed to be happy about it.

Perhaps, for once, she could simply look forward to Sunday.

Later that night, she called Raven.

Raven answered on the second ring.

“Well?”

“He messaged me.”

“And?”

“We’re going for coffee on Sunday.”

There was a brief silence.

Then Raven let out a triumphant yell so loud that Miriam had to pull the phone away from her ear.

“Raven!”

“I am celebrating!”

“You sound like you’ve won the lottery.”

“You have been asked on a date! This is considerably more interesting than the lottery. The lottery has terrible dialogue.”

Miriam laughed.

“I’m nervous.”

“Naturally.”

“What if I don’t know what to say?”

“Then you ask him questions. People generally enjoy talking about themselves.”

“What if I ask too many questions?”

“Then you have discovered something about yourself and something about Eitan: namely, how much questioning he can tolerate before fleeing into the wilderness.”

“Raven!”

“Fine. Ask him about his green suit.”

Miriam smiled.

“I might.”

“Ask him about the hat.”

“I can’t ask him about the hat.”

“Why not? It is a magnificent hat. It deserves to be discussed.”

Miriam laughed again, and Raven’s voice softened.

“Listen to me. You don’t have to perform. You don’t have to prove that you’re interesting enough, pretty enough, or anything enough. Go and meet him. Find out whether you like him.”

Miriam lay back against her pillows.

“Find out whether I like him?”

“Yes. You’ve spent years wondering whether men will like you. You are allowed to have an opinion too.”

Miriam was quiet.

It was such a simple idea, and yet it changed the shape of the coming week.

She had been thinking of the date as an examination for which she needed to prepare. What would she wear? What should she say? How could she avoid making a mistake? How could she make herself sufficiently appealing that Eitan would want a second date?

But Raven was suggesting that she was not merely the person being evaluated.

She was also the person doing the evaluating.

She would be meeting a young man to discover who he was, what he cared about, whether they could talk comfortably, whether she felt at ease with him.

She was not simply waiting to learn whether she had passed.

“All right,” she said.

“Good.”

“And Raven?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being happy for me.”

Raven was quiet for a moment.

“Of course I’m happy for you, Miriam. I want you to have all the things you want. I just also want you to know that you’re already a whole person while you’re waiting for them.”

Miriam felt her eyes grow wet.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I’m learning.”

“That’s good enough.”

They talked for another half-hour, mostly about ordinary things. Raven described a disastrous attempt to repair a bookshelf. Miriam told her about a child in her class who had written an essay explaining why dinosaurs would have made excellent rabbis.

By the time they said goodnight, Miriam was smiling again.

She put her phone on the bedside table and turned off the lamp.

Sunday was still several days away. She had no idea whether the date would lead to another, whether she and Eitan would have anything in common, or whether the beautiful green suit and plum hat belonged to a man she would come to know and love.

But for the first time in years, the future contained something other than the prospect of another rejection.

It contained a possibility.

And Miriam, lying in the dark, allowed herself to be happy about it.

Miriam began worrying about Sunday on Thursday.

At first, she worried about what to wear. Then she worried about whether worrying about what to wear was a sign that she was taking the date too seriously. Then she worried that if she didn’t take it seriously enough, she would somehow ruin the first date she had ever been asked on.

By Friday morning, she had managed to worry about all three possibilities before she had finished her tea.

Raven listened to the entire account over the phone.

“So,” she said at last, “we have a situation.”

“I knew you would understand.”

“Oh, completely. A young woman has been invited to drink coffee with a man. There are clothes involved. Possibly chairs. It’s practically a hostage negotiation.”

“Raven!”

“Sorry. A romantic hostage negotiation. Much more dangerous.”

Miriam laughed despite herself.

“Can you come over tomorrow evening?” she asked. “I need help choosing what to wear.”

“Obviously. I’ve been training for this my entire life.”

“You have?”

“No. But I own black clothes and strong opinions, which is basically the same thing.”

Raven arrived at Miriam’s apartment on Saturday evening carrying a tote bag, a packet of biscuits, and the expression of a woman who had been entrusted with a task of national importance.

Miriam had already taken several dresses out of her wardrobe and laid them across her bed. Beside them were two skirts, three blouses, and a cardigan that she had included because it was sensible, then excluded because it was boring, then included again because perhaps boring was what a respectable young woman ought to be.

Raven stood in the doorway.

“Have you been burgled by a very modest department store?”

“I don’t know what to wear.”

“I can see that. The wardrobe appears to have exploded.”

“I want to look nice.”

“Excellent. That’s a promising start.”

“But not as though I’m trying too hard.”

“Also reasonable.”

“And not as though I don’t care.”

“Of course.”

“And I don’t want him to think I’m—”

“Miriam.”

Raven put the biscuits down and turned to face her.

“Before we proceed, I would like to establish one thing. We are dressing you for a coffee date, not for your appearance before the Supreme Court.”

Miriam pressed her lips together, trying not to smile.

“I know.”

“Do you? Because the bed suggests you are preparing for a royal wedding, a job interview, and an international incident simultaneously.”

“I just want him to like me.”

The words came out more quietly than she intended.

Raven’s expression softened.

“I know.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Raven sat on the edge of the bed, carefully moving a blouse out of the way.

“It’s all right to want him to like you,” she said. “You don’t have to pretend you’re above that. You like him already, at least a little. He approached you, he asked you out, and he was polite. That’s exciting. You want it to go well.”

Miriam sat beside her.

“But I don’t want to make a mistake.”

“Darling, you are going to make several mistakes in your life. Some of them will involve men. Some will involve cooking. I once cut my own fringe at two in the morning because I had a spiritual revelation about symmetry.”

Miriam stared at her. “You did not.”

“I absolutely did. The revelation was wrong.”

Miriam laughed, and Raven nudged her shoulder.

“The point is, you cannot make yourself mistake-proof before somebody gets to know you. And if you have to spend the entire date monitoring every word, every movement, every bite of cake, you won’t have any energy left to find out whether you actually enjoy his company.”

Miriam looked down at her hands.

“I’ve spent so long thinking about what men might want that I don’t know how to think about what I want.”

“Then Sunday is practice.”

“Practice?”

“Practice having an opinion. Practice asking questions. Practice noticing whether you feel comfortable. Practice being a person who is on a date, rather than a candidate who has been called for an interview.”

“And if he doesn’t like me?”

“Then you will be disappointed. We will eat something chocolatey, and I will say several unkind things about the institution of romantic disappointment, and you will survive.”

“What if I don’t like him?”

Raven turned slowly towards her, as though Miriam had just announced that she intended to become the first woman to walk on Mars.

“Then,” she said gravely, “we shall have made extraordinary progress.”

Miriam threw a cushion at her.

Raven caught it against her chest, looking immensely pleased with herself.

“Now. Clothes.”

They started with the dark blue skirt Miriam wore for Shabbat and special occasions. It was a good skirt, well cut, with a soft movement to the fabric. She paired it with a pale rose blouse she had bought several months earlier but worn only once.

Raven examined the combination.

“Very nice.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You look like yourself, only like yourself on a day when you have somewhere pleasant to go.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It is an extremely sophisticated compliment.”

Miriam looked at herself in the mirror. The blouse brought out the colour in her cheeks. The skirt fitted comfortably, and the whole outfit was modest without being shapeless. She turned a little to one side, then the other.

“I look all right.”

Raven tilted her head.

“You look lovely.”

Miriam’s face warmed. She had been complimented before, of course. Her mother told her she was beautiful. Her pupils liked her colourful earrings and the way she made up stories to explain difficult things. But she had grown accustomed to receiving compliments with a small, private qualification attached: lovely, considering; pretty, if only; a good girl, and perhaps somebody will see past—

She had not realised how much work it took to add those invisible words.

Raven seemed to notice her expression.

“You don’t have to argue with me,” she said. “You can just say thank you.”

“Thank you,” Miriam said, a little awkwardly.

“There. Look at you. Learning to receive a compliment without convening a committee.”

They tried a second outfit: a plum blouse with a charcoal skirt. Miriam liked the colour, but the blouse felt a little too formal. The third was a cream blouse with a green skirt, which Raven declared made Miriam look like “a very charming woodland schoolteacher.”

“I am a schoolteacher.”

“Yes, but I meant the sort who knows which mushrooms are poisonous.”

“I teach children to read.”

“Perhaps the mushrooms are an extracurricular activity.”

In the end, they returned to the rose blouse and blue skirt.

Miriam added a simple necklace and a pair of earrings she particularly liked. She checked that the blouse was properly buttoned at the neckline, smoothed her skirt, and arranged her hair.

Then she stood still before the mirror.

“I’m frightened,” she admitted.

Raven, who had been putting the rejected clothes back on their hangers, looked up.

“Of Eitan?”

“Not exactly. Of everything. Of hoping. I know that sounds ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t.”

“What if I get excited and then he doesn’t want to see me again? What if I start thinking this could be something, and then it turns out to be nothing?”

Raven put the hanger down.

“Miriam, you are allowed to enjoy Sunday even if there isn’t a second date.”

“But that would make it all pointless.”

“Would it? Suppose you have a pleasant afternoon. You drink good coffee. You talk to an interesting man. You learn something about him, and he learns something about you. Perhaps you laugh. Perhaps you discover that you have nothing in common beyond both being Jewish and liking coffee. Is that nothing?”

Miriam thought about it.

“I suppose not.”

“And suppose you do like him. Suppose you want to see him again. That would be nice too. But you don’t have to turn one cup of coffee into a prophecy.”

“A prophecy?”

“You live in Jerusalem. Someone has to say something prophetic every so often. It’s in the water.”

Miriam smiled.

Raven picked up the packet of biscuits and held it out.

“Biscuit?”

“It’s nearly bedtime.”

“That’s not a no.”

Miriam took one.

They ate them sitting on the bed, surrounded by the remains of the wardrobe crisis, and talked about other things. Raven told her about an argument in the coven over whether a certain candle smelled more like a forest or a particularly damp basement. Miriam described one of her pupils who had decided that all historical figures must have had WhatsApp and was now trying to work out how Moses had managed the group chat for the Exodus.

By the time Raven left, Miriam was no longer thinking exclusively about Sunday.

That, she realised, was a small victory.

Sunday morning was worse.

Miriam woke before her alarm, lay awake for twenty minutes, and then got up because lying in bed gave her too much time to imagine conversations that had not happened.

She prayed Shacharit, ate breakfast, and tried to read a little. She managed three paragraphs before discovering that she had read the same sentence four times.

Her mother found her standing in the kitchen, staring into a cupboard.

“What are you looking for, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ah. One of those things.”

Miriam shut the cupboard.

Her mother smiled. “You’re nervous.”

“Is it obvious?”

“Only because you have opened that cupboard twice already, and unless the cereal has become more interesting since breakfast, I suspect it isn’t what you want.”

Miriam leaned against the counter.

“I’m afraid I’ll be disappointed.”

Her mother came to stand beside her.

“Of course you are.”

“And I’m afraid I’ll disappoint him.”

“That is possible too,” her mother said gently.

Miriam looked at her in surprise.

Her mother continued before she could answer.

“You may say something he doesn’t agree with. He may discover that he doesn’t like your sense of humour, or you may discover that his sense of humour is dreadful. You may both be perfectly nice people who simply aren’t suited to each other.”

“That’s a very encouraging speech, Ima.”

“I am trying to be honest. I could tell you that everything will be wonderful, but I don’t know that. Neither do you.”

She took Miriam’s hand.

“What I do know is that you have spent a long time believing that every unsuccessful date, every unanswered suggestion, every man who didn’t call again was a verdict on you. I don’t want you to carry that into this meeting.”

Miriam swallowed.

“I know.”

“You are a good woman. You are thoughtful, funny, and kind. You care about people. You make our home warmer. You are a wonderful teacher. None of those things guarantees that Eitan will be the right man for you.”

Her mother squeezed her hand.

“But they are true whether he sees them or not.”

Miriam’s eyes filled.

Her mother pulled her into a hug, and for a few moments Miriam allowed herself to be held without trying to turn the moment into a promise about the future.

When they separated, her mother smoothed Miriam’s hair.

“And if you come home and tell me he was terrible, I shall listen sympathetically.”

“Will you?”

“Certainly. I may privately wonder how a man dressed in such an interesting suit managed to be terrible, but I shall listen.”

Miriam laughed.

“Who told you about the suit?”

“You did, three times.”

“Only three?”

“I was being polite.”

By early afternoon, Miriam had changed into her chosen outfit and changed back out of it, then changed into it again. She had checked the time on her phone so often that the screen seemed to be judging her.

At half past two, a message arrived.

Eitan: Hello Miriam. I’m looking forward to seeing you. I’ll be at the café a few minutes before three. Take your time getting there.

She read it twice.

It was a perfectly ordinary message. No grand declaration, no mysterious hint, no sign that the future of her life depended on it.

She found that reassuring.

She replied that she was looking forward to it too, then put the phone down before she could begin analysing the punctuation.

At ten to three, she was ready to leave.

Her mother kissed her cheek and wished her a good afternoon. She did not say I hope this is the one, and Miriam was grateful for that. Instead, she said, “Remember to enjoy yourself.”

“I’ll try.”

“Not too hard. It isn’t an examination.”

Miriam smiled. “Raven said almost exactly the same thing.”

“Then Raven and I agree on something. This is a historic occasion.”

Miriam left the apartment feeling as if she had stepped into a version of her life that she had once imagined so often that she had almost stopped believing it could happen.

She was going on a date.

Not because a matchmaker had arranged a meeting out of obligation. Not because someone had told a man that he ought to give her a chance. A man had seen her sitting in a park, had come over, and had asked her himself.

She knew that one invitation did not change everything. She knew that Eitan was still almost a stranger. She knew that the afternoon might be lovely, awkward, disappointing, or some combination of all three.

But she was going anyway.

And she was allowed to be happy about it.

The café was on a quiet street not far from the centre, tucked between a bookshop and a small shop selling household goods. It had outdoor tables beneath a striped awning, with potted plants along the pavement and enough space between the chairs that diners could talk without hearing every word of their neighbours’ conversations.

Miriam arrived a little early.

She stopped across the street, pretending to examine the bookshop window while she took three slow breaths.

She had been to cafés before. She had met friends for coffee, bought takeaway drinks, sat with colleagues after work. There was nothing mysterious about a café.

Except that, today, there was a man waiting for her inside.

She looked at her reflection in the window. The rose blouse, the blue skirt, the necklace. Her hair was tidy. Her face was a little pink from walking.

She looked like Miriam.

She wondered whether that was enough.

Her phone vibrated.

Raven: Reporting for moral support. How are we feeling?

Miriam typed back.

Miriam: Terrified.

The reply came almost immediately.

Raven: Excellent. It means you’re alive. Remember, you are going to meet a man, not defend a doctoral thesis.

Miriam smiled and put the phone away.

She crossed the street, then paused outside the café. Through the open front, she could see the tables, the counter, a waiter carrying two glasses of water.

And then she saw Eitan.

He was sitting at a table outside, just as he had promised. His dark green suit looked even more distinctive in daylight, the colour deep and rich against the pale stone of the buildings. His very dark plum fedora rested on the empty chair beside him. His bow tie was a muted gold, and he was looking down at something on the table, perhaps the menu.

He looked up.

For a second, they saw each other from opposite sides of the entrance.

Then Eitan smiled.

Not a grand smile, not the smile of a man who had already decided anything about her. Just a warm, slightly nervous smile, as though he too had spent the afternoon wondering what the other person would be like.

Miriam felt a rush of happiness so sudden that it frightened her.

She wanted to go straight to him. She wanted to turn around and run home. She wanted to tell Raven that the man really did wear the plum hat and that this was somehow the most extraordinary thing that had ever happened.

Instead, she stood very still.

Her phone vibrated once more.

Raven: One last thing, before you go in.

Miriam looked down.

Raven: You don’t have to earn your place at that table. He invited you because he wanted to meet you. Go find out whether you want to meet him, too. And if you spill coffee on yourself, remember that I once gave myself a fringe that could have been used to measure a straight line. You will recover.

Miriam laughed, a small, startled laugh that loosened something in her chest.

She looked up again. Eitan was still there, waiting patiently, and when he saw her smile he stood to greet her.

Miriam slipped her phone into her bag.

For the first time all afternoon, she stopped wondering whether she was good enough to walk through the door.

She straightened her shoulders, smoothed the front of her skirt, and took a step towards the café.

At the entrance, she and Raven had agreed to part ways without a dramatic farewell. Raven had insisted that hovering nearby would be “both creepy and deeply unhelpful,” though she had also promised to keep her phone close.

Miriam glanced back once towards the street where she had been standing alone a moment earlier. Raven wasn’t there, of course. She was somewhere else, living her own Sunday, trusting Miriam to take this small step without her.

Miriam turned back towards Eitan.

And Raven’s last words stayed with her as she crossed the threshold:

You are not going there to persuade someone to choose you. You are going there to see what the two of you might discover.

For the first few minutes, Miriam was so conscious of being on a date that she could hardly remember how to behave like a person.

Eitan stood as she approached the table.

“Hello, Miriam.”

“Hello, Eitan.”

They smiled at each other. There was a brief, slightly awkward pause in which they both seemed to be waiting for the other to do something.

“Would you like to sit here?” he asked, pulling out the chair opposite his. “I thought outside might be pleasant, but if you’d rather be inside, we can move.”

“Outside is lovely. Thank you.”

She sat down, arranging her skirt carefully beneath the table. Eitan waited until she was settled before taking his own seat. His fedora lay on the empty chair beside him, and without it he looked even taller and thinner than she remembered.

“I hope you found the place easily,” he said.

“Yes. I nearly walked past it, but then I saw you.”

“Was the hat a useful landmark?”

Miriam laughed. “I was going to say that.”

“Excellent. Then we are already thinking alike.”

It was such a small, silly exchange, but it broke the tension. Miriam felt her shoulders relax.

A waiter brought them menus. They ordered coffee, and Eitan asked whether she had been to the café before.

“No. I don’t often come into this part of town.”

“Neither do I, actually. I found it when I was looking for somewhere quiet to read. The coffee is good, and the owner doesn’t seem to believe that every table needs to be occupied by someone having a business meeting.”

“That’s a rare quality in a café.”

“Very rare. I once sat in a place where the man at the next table spent forty minutes explaining to somebody why his company was about to revolutionise the world. I don’t think he noticed that the world had been waiting patiently for him to finish his sandwich.”

Miriam laughed again, more freely this time.

Eitan smiled at her.

“I was hoping you would laugh at that.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought it was funny, and I was worried it might not be.”

“I’m afraid I can’t promise to laugh at everything you say.”

“That’s fair. I shall have to improve my material.”

The waiter brought their coffee. They thanked him, and for a moment both attended to their cups. Miriam had rehearsed questions in her head all morning, but now she found that she didn’t need to reach for them. She was curious about Eitan. That was enough.

“So,” she said, “what do you do?”

He told her that he worked in a small architectural practice, mostly on renovations and residential buildings. He liked the practical side of it: the problem of making an old building work for the people who lived in it without erasing everything that made it interesting.

“I suppose that’s a very architectural way of saying that I like old houses,” he added.

“I like old houses too.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I like thinking about all the people who have lived in them. The things they’ve argued about, the meals they’ve cooked, the children who’ve grown up there. A house is full of things that never make it into history books.”

Eitan looked at her with evident interest.

“That’s exactly what I think. You can look at a building and see the work of the architect, but you can also see all the little changes made by people who were simply trying to live. A doorway widened because someone needed to move furniture. A window closed because the sun was too strong. A shelf put up by somebody who probably never imagined that, a hundred years later, someone would be studying it.”

Miriam felt a little thrill of recognition.

She had expected to have to work hard to find something to say. Instead, here was a subject they could both talk about without effort.

They moved from architecture to history, from history to the old neighbourhoods of Jerusalem, and from there to the peculiar ways people organised their homes around Shabbat. Eitan told her about a building he had worked on where the residents had disagreed for months about the best place for a lift, only to discover that the real dispute was about whose view would be spoiled.

“People are fascinating,” Miriam said.

“People are exhausting,” Eitan replied. “Fortunately, those two things are not mutually exclusive.”

By the time the waiter came to ask whether they wanted anything else, Miriam had forgotten to wonder whether she was talking too much.

She was enjoying herself.

And, more surprisingly, Eitan seemed to be enjoying himself too.

It was nearly an hour into the date when the conversation turned to his clothes.

Miriam had been trying not to stare at the very dark green suit, which was lovely and unusual and clearly chosen with care. The bow tie was a muted gold, and she had noticed that his fedora, now resting on the chair, had a narrow plum-coloured ribbon around it.

“May I ask you something?” she said.

“Of course.”

“Your suit.”

He glanced down at himself.

“Ah. Yes. The suit.”

“I don’t mean that in a bad way.”

“I hope not. It was rather expensive.”

She laughed. “I meant that it’s unusual. In a nice way. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an Orthodox man dressed quite like that.”

“That’s because most Orthodox men have better judgement.”

“No, they don’t,” Miriam said before she could stop herself.

Eitan stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing.

It was a surprisingly unrestrained laugh, and Miriam found herself laughing too.

“I’m sorry,” she said, when she could speak again. “That was terribly rude.”

“Not at all. I was about to say something similar, but I was going to be more diplomatic.”

“Were you?”

“No. I was going to say that most Orthodox men dress as if they’re afraid that a colourful piece of fabric might cause a theological crisis.”

Miriam covered her mouth.

“I can’t believe you said that.”

“I can’t believe you agreed with me.”

They grinned at each other.

Then Eitan glanced at his suit again, and his expression became a little more thoughtful.

“I suppose it’s partly that I like clothes. I like colour. I like the fact that people used to take pleasure in dressing well without necessarily dressing extravagantly. And I don’t see why being an Orthodox Jew should mean that I must look exactly like every other Orthodox Jew.”

“Does anyone mind?”

“Some people. My mother occasionally tells me that I would look more respectable in black.”

“What do you tell her?”

“That I am deeply grateful she has not yet confiscated my wardrobe.”

Miriam smiled.

“But is it only about clothes?” she asked.

Eitan considered the question.

“No. Not really.”

He turned his cup slowly between his hands.

“I take being Jewish seriously. I keep Shabbat, I daven, I learn Torah. I keep kosher. I believe that halakha matters, and that a Jewish life should be shaped by more than whatever happens to appeal to me on a particular day.”

Miriam nodded. She was listening carefully now.

“But I don’t always fit into the boxes people seem to have prepared,” he continued. “I have friends who are very traditional in some ways and much less so in others. I enjoy learning Gemara, but I also enjoy reading books that have nothing to do with Judaism. I think the world is interesting, and I don’t believe I need to be frightened of that.”

He smiled a little self-consciously.

“I realise that sounds rather grand when I say it over coffee.”

“No,” Miriam said. “It doesn’t.”

She paused, then added, “I think I understand what you mean.”

“Do you?”

“I think sometimes people want to know which kind of person you are before they’ve actually met you. They want to put you somewhere. And if you don’t fit, they think you’re confused.”

Eitan looked at her for a long moment.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Exactly.”

Miriam was surprised by how much she wanted him to understand her, too.

“I’ve always been quite conventional,” she said. “At least, I think I have. I’ve wanted the usual things. Marriage, children, a Jewish home. Shabbat dinners, a family, all of that.”

“Those sound like good things to want.”

“They are. I still want them.”

She took a breath.

“But for a long time, I thought that if I wasn’t married, I was somehow failing to become the person I was supposed to be. I spent so much time worrying about whether a man would like me that I didn’t think very much about whether I would like him.”

Eitan didn’t interrupt.

“I’ve been trying to change that,” she continued. “To remember that I have a life now, not just a life that might begin when somebody chooses me.”

He nodded slowly.

“I think that’s a very important distinction.”

“It’s also much easier to say than to do.”

“I imagine so.”

Miriam looked at him. “You don’t have to agree with everything I say, you know.”

“That’s reassuring. I was worried I might have to spend the entire afternoon nodding.”

She laughed.

“I mean it,” she said. “You can disagree with me.”

“I know. And I will, if I do. But I don’t think I need to disagree merely to demonstrate my independence.”

Miriam looked down at her coffee, smiling.

She liked that answer.

The afternoon seemed to open up around them.

They spoke about their families. Eitan had grown up in an Orthodox home where learning was valued, but where his parents had also encouraged him to take an interest in the wider world. His father could talk about a sugya in the Gemara for an hour, then spend another hour explaining why a particular football manager had made a disastrous tactical decision.

“My mother says that my father can find a theological principle in almost anything,” Eitan said. “She once asked him to fix a shelf, and he spent twenty minutes explaining the difference between temporary and permanent structures.”

“Did he fix the shelf?”

“Eventually. But only after explaining that the shelf was not, in fact, the essential question.”

Miriam laughed so hard that she had to put down her cup.

“My father does things like that,” she said. “He can turn buying a new kettle into a discussion about the proper use of money.”

“Does he eventually buy the kettle?”

“Yes, but only after deciding that the old one might have lasted another year.”

They spoke about siblings, cousins, family meals, and the particular chaos of trying to organise everyone around a table. Miriam told him about teaching and how children could be both infuriating and astonishingly perceptive.

“One of my pupils asked me last week whether adults are ever certain about anything,” she said.

“What did you tell him?”

“I said that adults are certain about many things. Then I thought about it and told him that adults are often certain that they are right, which is not quite the same thing.”

Eitan grinned.

“That child is fortunate to have you as a teacher.”

The compliment caught her off guard.

“Thank you.”

She didn’t add but I’m not particularly clever or there are much better teachers than me. She let the words stand.

Eitan noticed, perhaps, because his smile grew warmer.

He told her about a time when he had been helping a friend move flats and had confidently assured everyone that a large bookcase would fit through the stairwell. It had not. The bookcase had remained wedged at an angle for nearly an hour while six people offered increasingly implausible solutions.

“What did you do?” Miriam asked.

“I suggested taking the bookcase apart.”

“Wasn’t that obvious?”

“Yes. But I had spent forty minutes insisting that it would fit, so by that point I was emotionally committed to the stairwell.”

Miriam laughed until her eyes watered.

“I wish I’d seen that.”

“I am glad you didn’t. I was wearing a much less distinguished suit.”

The joke made her look at him properly, and she found herself noticing the details of his face: the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way he listened with his whole attention, the way he sometimes seemed to pause before answering, as though he wanted to be sure he had understood the question.

He wasn’t simply an interesting man in an unusual suit.

He was Eitan.

And she liked him.

The realisation was so gentle that at first she almost missed it.

At some point, Eitan asked about her friends.

Miriam hesitated for only a moment before deciding that she wanted to tell him about Raven.

“There’s someone I’ve become very close to recently,” she said. “Her name is Raven.”

“Raven?”

“That’s the name she uses now. She was called Shira growing up.”

Eitan’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he didn’t comment.

“She was raised Orthodox,” Miriam continued, “but she no longer believes. She’s an atheist. She has purple hair, several piercings, and a rather dramatic wardrobe.”

“I see.”

“She belongs to a coven.”

Eitan blinked.

Miriam felt a familiar impulse to rush ahead and explain everything before he could form an opinion.

“It’s not quite what you might imagine. Well, perhaps it is in some ways. They have rituals and talk about witchcraft, but mostly they’re friends. They drink tea, eat biscuits, complain about their landlords, and look after one another. Raven says that the rituals are a way of marking things that matter to them, rather than proof that magic works.”

Eitan was quiet for a moment.

“And you go there?”

“I’ve been once.”

“How was it?”

“Lovely.”

He seemed genuinely surprised.

“Really?”

“Really. I thought I’d feel out of place. I did, at first. But they were kind to me. Nobody tried to convert me, and Raven didn’t ask me to pretend I believed anything I don’t believe. I was able to be there as myself.”

Miriam studied his face, wondering whether he was going to tell her that this was inappropriate, or that she ought to find more suitable friends.

Instead, he asked, “And what do you like about her?”

The question startled her.

“What do I like about her?”

“Yes. You could have told me what she looks like or what she believes. But what do you like about her?”

Miriam felt a smile spread across her face.

“She makes me laugh. She listens to me. She tells me the truth, even when I’m being ridiculous, but she never makes me feel stupid. She has helped me realise that I can enjoy things without having to justify them by saying they will make me a better wife someday.”

She paused, thinking of the burgundy, teal, and lavender bras folded in her drawer, and the simple pleasure she had felt choosing them.

“She has been very good to me,” she finished.

Eitan nodded.

“Then she sounds like a good friend.”

Miriam felt a small, unexpected rush of relief.

“You don’t think it’s strange?”

“I’m sure some people would think so.”

“But you don’t?”

He considered this.

“I think it’s possible to disagree with a person about something fundamental and still recognise their kindness. I also think friendship is a serious thing. If someone has helped you become more honest with yourself, and has treated you with care, I wouldn’t dismiss that simply because I disagree with some of her beliefs.”

Miriam looked at him.

“That’s a very generous way of looking at it.”

“I don’t know if it’s generous. It seems fairly obvious to me.”

“It’s not always obvious to everyone.”

“No,” he said. “I suppose it isn’t.”

He took a sip of coffee.

“I would want to understand what your friendship means to you, of course. And I imagine there are things about her life that you don’t share. But I don’t think I need to approve of every belief held by everyone you know before I can recognise that they matter to you.”

Miriam was quiet for a moment.

She had not realised how much she had been bracing herself for disapproval until she found she didn’t have to defend Raven.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For listening.”

He looked faintly puzzled.

“Of course.”

And that, somehow, was what made it so moving. He had not performed an elaborate act of tolerance. He had simply listened to her talk about someone she loved, and taken that love seriously.

She wanted to tell Raven about it immediately.

She resisted the urge to reach for her phone.

The light began to change. The potted plants beside their table cast longer shadows, and the air grew cooler. The waiter came to ask whether they would like another drink.

They looked at each other.

“Would you like to stay a little longer?” Eitan asked.

Miriam was surprised by how quickly she answered.

“Yes. I’d like that.”

“Good. So would I.”

They ordered tea.

Then they talked about books.

Eitan liked essays, history, and novels in which people behaved in complicated ways for reasons they only partly understood. Miriam confessed that she sometimes read children’s books even when she didn’t need them for school, because she liked stories that remembered how large the world could seem when you were small.

“There’s a book I read as a child,” she said, “about a girl who finds a hidden garden. I think I wanted to find a hidden garden for years.”

“Did you?”

“No. I found several ordinary gardens. They were nice, but they weren’t hidden.”

“Perhaps the problem was that you were looking too hard.”

“Perhaps.”

He told her about a book he had once borrowed from a library and forgotten to return for almost a year. He had finally taken it back, convinced that the librarian would demand a substantial fine, only to discover that the library had changed its entire computer system and nobody could find the record.

“So you got away with it?” Miriam asked.

“I prefer to say that I was vindicated by administrative chaos.”

“I’m sure the author would be relieved.”

They talked about music, about the different ways people found meaning, about how difficult it was to know when a tradition was preserving something precious and when it was merely preserving a habit. They did not agree about everything. Eitan thought that some of Miriam’s worries about the Orthodox community were too pessimistic. Miriam thought that he sometimes underestimated how much social expectations could weigh on people who did not fit comfortably into them.

But the disagreements were easy. Neither tried to win. Each seemed more interested in understanding why the other saw things differently.

Once, Miriam said something she immediately thought sounded foolish. She felt herself beginning to apologise.

Eitan tilted his head.

“Why are you apologising?”

“Because I don’t think I explained that very well.”

“You don’t have to explain everything perfectly the first time.”

She looked at him.

“I know. I just—”

“It’s all right,” he said. “Take your time.”

So she did.

She explained what she had meant, and he listened. The conversation moved on, leaving no embarrassment behind.

It was such a small thing. Yet Miriam found herself thinking that she could get used to talking to someone who did not treat every awkward moment as evidence of a flaw.

At around six, the waiter brought them menus again.

“Would you like to order something to eat?” he asked. “The kitchen will be open for another couple of hours.”

Miriam glanced at Eitan.

She had assumed the date would last perhaps an hour and a half. Two hours, at most. She had imagined going home in the late afternoon, telling her mother that it had been pleasant, and then spending the evening trying not to analyse every detail.

Instead, the afternoon had vanished.

“I suppose we should eat,” she said.

“Unless you have somewhere else you need to be?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Neither do I.”

He smiled, and she found herself smiling back.

They ordered a light supper. Miriam chose a savoury tart with a salad, and Eitan ordered a baked dish with vegetables and bread. They checked the ingredients with the waiter, as they both kept kosher, and settled into the comfortable business of deciding whether to share a side dish.

The food arrived. They ate. They talked.

Somehow, the fact that they were now having supper made the date feel both more ordinary and more extraordinary. It was no longer a carefully arranged meeting between two people who had agreed to give one another an opportunity. It was simply two people who were hungry, sitting at a table, enjoying a meal together.

Miriam told him about her mother, who could feed six unexpected guests without appearing to notice that she had been interrupted. Eitan told her about his younger sister, who had once invited three friends for lunch and neglected to tell anyone until they were already at the door.

“Was there enough food?” Miriam asked.

“Of course. My mother believes that the proper response to an unexpected guest is to make another pot of rice and pretend this was the plan all along.”

“My mother believes the proper response is to start cooking another three dishes.”

“Then perhaps our mothers should meet.”

Miriam laughed.

“They’d probably decide we ought to get married.”

Eitan’s fork paused for the briefest moment.

Miriam felt the heat rush to her face.

“I didn’t mean— I was only joking. I didn’t mean that you and I—”

“It’s all right,” he said, smiling. “I understood.”

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why not? It was a joke.”

“Yes, but—”

“Miriam.” His voice was gentle. “We are allowed to have a pleasant evening without every sentence becoming a binding agreement.”

She stared at him.

Then she laughed, partly from relief and partly because he had managed to say exactly what she needed to hear.

“That’s almost word for word what Raven would say.”

“I shall have to meet this woman. She seems to offer useful advice.”

“She would be delighted to know that.”

“Would she approve of my suit?”

“She would say that it needs more black.”

“I suspected as much.”

“She’d probably approve of the bow tie.”

“Then there is hope for me.”

They finished their supper, and neither seemed particularly eager to ask for the bill.

Eventually the waiter cleared their plates. He looked at them with the faint, amused expression of someone who had noticed that they had occupied the same table for several hours without once looking bored.

“Would you like anything else?” he asked.

Eitan glanced at Miriam.

“Would you like dessert?”

Miriam thought of the time, then looked at him.

“Yes,” she said. “I would.”

They shared a slice of cake.

It was not a particularly remarkable cake. The chocolate was a little too sweet, and the cream was slightly heavier than Miriam would normally choose. But Eitan made a serious argument that a café which served good coffee was entitled to one imperfect dessert, and Miriam insisted that he was confusing generosity with poor quality control.

They debated the matter with great solemnity until they were both laughing again.

By the time they finished, the street outside had grown quiet. A few customers remained inside, but the staff had begun stacking chairs at the far end of the terrace and wiping down unused tables.

Miriam noticed a waiter glance towards them, then discreetly check the time.

“Oh,” she said. “I think we’re keeping them.”

Eitan looked around.

“I believe you’re right.”

She felt a little pang of disappointment.

“I hadn’t realised it was so late.”

“Neither had I.”

He looked at her across the table, and for a moment the humour left his face.

“I’ve had a very good afternoon, Miriam.”

She held his gaze.

“So have I.”

“I was hoping we would get along. I didn’t expect to find so much to talk about.”

“Neither did I.”

He smiled.

“I should perhaps admit that I spent some time beforehand wondering whether I would run out of things to say.”

“You?”

“Yes. I considered preparing questions.”

Miriam stared at him in delight.

“You prepared questions?”

“Several. I had a very sensible list.”

“What happened to it?”

“I forgot it existed about ten minutes after you arrived.”

She laughed.

“I was worried about the same thing.”

“Then we were both worrying unnecessarily.”

“Apparently.”

The waiter approached with the bill, and Eitan reached for it. Miriam began to protest, but he paused.

“Would you prefer to split it?”

She was touched that he asked rather than assuming.

“I’d be happy to contribute.”

“Then we can do that.”

They settled the bill, thanked the staff, and began gathering their things. Eitan put on his plum fedora, adjusting it with a small, practised movement. Miriam slipped her bag over her shoulder.

The café was closing. They had arrived in the afternoon as two people who barely knew each other, and now the staff were turning off lights around them.

As they stepped outside, Miriam realised that she was not trying to work out whether the date had been a success.

She knew it had been.

What she did not yet know was what would happen next, and for once the uncertainty did not feel like a threat.

They walked together to the corner, taking their time. Eitan asked which way she was going, and she told him. Their routes would be the same for a little while, though not all the way home.

“I’d like to see you again,” he said.

Miriam stopped walking.

He looked a little nervous now, which made her feel strangely braver.

“I’d like that too,” she said.

His smile was warm and unmistakably happy.

“Good. Perhaps we could do something next week? We don’t have to decide the details now.”

“Yes. I’d like that.”

They stood for a moment, neither quite sure how to end the evening. They were both careful, both conscious of their boundaries, and neither tried to turn a lovely date into something it wasn’t. Eitan thanked her for coming. Miriam thanked him for choosing the café.

Then he said, “I hope you get home safely.”

“You too.”

They parted at the corner, each heading in a different direction.

Miriam walked for several minutes before taking out her phone.

There were already two messages from Raven.

Raven: Are you alive?

Raven: If you have been kidnapped by a man in a plum hat, send one discreet emoji.

Miriam laughed aloud on the pavement.

She typed:

Miriam: I’m alive.

Then, after a moment, she added:

Miriam: Raven, we talked until the café closed.

The answer came almost immediately.

Raven: Oh.

A second message followed.

Raven: Oh.

Miriam could practically hear Raven’s delighted voice through the screen.

Raven: I am going to need a full report. Not necessarily tonight, because you should be allowed to enjoy your own feelings before I interrogate you. But soon.

Miriam smiled and put the phone away.

She was tired. She was hungry for more conversation. She was already remembering little things Eitan had said, and wondering what he would say about them next time. She was nervous about the future, but the nervousness was no longer a heavy, familiar dread.

It was excitement.

For years, she had imagined a man choosing her as though that moment would finally settle the question of whether she was worth choosing.

Eitan had asked her to coffee, and they had spent hours discovering each other. He had listened to her talk about Raven without dismissing the friendship. He had disagreed with her without making her feel foolish. He had made her laugh, and she had made him laugh. They had enjoyed a meal together and forgotten to watch the time.

He had asked to see her again.

And she had said yes because she wanted to.

That last part mattered more than she could quite explain.

When Miriam reached home, her mother looked up from the sitting room.

“Well?”

Miriam stood in the doorway, still smiling.

“It was wonderful.”

Her mother’s face lit up, but she restrained herself from asking the dozen questions that immediately appeared to be forming behind her eyes.

“I’m very glad, sweetheart.”

“We talked for hours. We had supper. The café closed.”

“The café closed?”

“Yes.”

Her mother pressed a hand to her heart. “Then I am pleased that you were eventually released.”

Miriam laughed and went to hug her.

Later, after she had changed into her comfortable clothes and made herself a cup of tea, she called Raven.

Raven answered on the first ring.

“I have been practising my calm expression,” she announced. “It is not going well.”

Miriam curled up on her bed.

“Raven, it was so lovely.”

And then she told her everything. Not every word, not every detail, but enough: the green suit, the bow tie, the conversation about architecture, the way Eitan had listened when she spoke about her friend, the supper, the cake, the closing café.

Raven listened with a smile in her voice.

“And you liked him?” she asked when Miriam finally paused for breath.

Miriam looked at the ceiling, thinking.

“Yes,” she said. “I really did.”

“Good.”

There was no teasing in Raven’s answer this time. Just warmth.

“I’m happy for you, Miriam.”

Miriam swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat.

“Thank you.”

“And remember,” Raven added, her dry humour returning, “you are allowed to enjoy this without immediately designing the invitations.”

“I am not designing invitations!”

“Excellent. Then we have made progress.”

Miriam laughed, and they talked a little longer before saying goodnight.

When the call ended, Miriam put her phone on the bedside table and lay back against her pillow.

She didn’t know whether Eitan would become a significant part of her life. She didn’t know whether the next date would be as easy, or whether they would discover differences that mattered. She didn’t know what would happen a month from now, let alone a year.

But she knew what had happened that afternoon.

A man had met her, listened to her, laughed with her, and wanted to see her again.

And she had met him, listened to him, laughed with him, and wanted to see him again too.

For once, she did not need to make the afternoon into a promise.

It was enough that it had been real.

By Thursday evening, Miriam had begun to worry about Shabbat.

Not about Shabbat itself. Shabbat was familiar, comforting, and full of things she knew how to do. She knew how to help her mother prepare the table, how to arrange the candles, how to make sure there was enough food, and how to keep the conversation going when one of her father’s long explanations threatened to occupy the entire meal.

No, the problem was Eitan.

Eitan had asked whether she would like him to come for a Shabbat meal at her parents’ home. He had put it very simply, as though inviting someone to meet one’s parents for the first time were an ordinary extension of having enjoyed three dates together.

Miriam had said yes.

Then she had spent the next two days wondering what she had done.

She called Raven on Thursday afternoon.

“He’s coming for Shabbat.”

“Who is?”

“Eitan!”

“Ah. The man with the hat. I was briefly concerned that you had invited a stranger from the street.”

“To my parents’ house.”

“That’s a very different category of stranger.”

Miriam groaned.

“I’m serious, Raven. What if it’s awkward?”

“Then it will be awkward. People have survived awkward Shabbat meals for thousands of years. It’s one of the great pillars of Jewish continuity.”

“I’m not helping him meet my parents because I want to test whether he can survive my father talking about the Rambam for forty minutes.”

“Perhaps you should. It would be a useful test.”

“Raven!”

“All right, all right. Tell me what’s worrying you.”

Miriam hesitated.

“It’s not just meeting my parents. It’s that he’s… different. Not in a bad way. I like that he’s different. But my parents might not understand him at first.”

“You mean the clothes?”

“The clothes. The way he talks. The fact that he doesn’t fit neatly into the sort of person they might imagine for me.”

Raven was quiet for a moment.

“Do you think your parents need him to be exactly what they imagine?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then perhaps give them a chance to meet the actual person before deciding they won’t like him.”

Miriam sighed.

“I know you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m a witch.”

“You’re an atheist.”

“I’m an atheist witch. It means I can be smug without having to attribute it to divine inspiration.”

Miriam laughed.

Raven’s voice softened.

“Look, Miriam. Your parents have been kind to me. They welcomed me into their home, and they didn’t know everything about me. They saw someone who was polite, who liked their cooking, and who cared about their daughter. Those things were real. Eitan will have his own chance to show them who he is.”

Miriam felt a little calmer.

“And if they don’t like his suit?”

“Then they will have to endure the terrible experience of knowing a man whose trousers are the wrong colour.”

“It’s not the trousers. It’s the whole thing.”

“I know. But you like him, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s been kind to you?”

“Yes.”

“And you want your parents to know him?”

Miriam smiled despite herself.

“Yes.”

“Then that’s what matters. You don’t have to make everybody understand everything at once.”

On Friday morning, Miriam’s mother was already busy in the kitchen when Miriam arrived to help.

The chicken was in the oven, the soup was simmering, and the counter was covered with the usual assortment of bowls, containers, and ingredients that made it seem as though the family were preparing to feed an entire neighbourhood.

Her mother looked up.

“So. Eitan is coming tonight.”

“Yes.”

“And you are pleased?”

Miriam tried not to smile too broadly.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Her mother returned to the vegetables, then glanced at Miriam again.

“What is he going to wear?”

Miriam nearly dropped the bunch of parsley she was holding.

“Ima!”

“What? It’s a reasonable question.”

“Why?”

“Because I have met you, and I have heard about this man’s wardrobe. I am trying to prepare myself.”

Miriam burst out laughing.

“He’ll wear Shabbat clothes.”

“Of course he will. I am not suggesting he come in a tracksuit. I am merely wondering whether his Shabbat clothes will be black.”

“They won’t.”

Her mother stopped chopping.

“They won’t?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

Miriam watched her mother’s expression carefully.

“He’s Orthodox, Ima. He keeps Shabbat. He davens. He learns Torah. He keeps kosher. He just likes colour.”

“I know what Orthodox means, Miriam.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

Her mother went back to chopping, though more slowly.

“I suppose I have become accustomed to a particular way of dressing. It makes people easy to recognise. You see a man in a black suit and hat, and you know something about the community he belongs to.”

“But you don’t know everything about him.”

“No,” her mother conceded. “Of course not.”

She put the knife down and looked at Miriam.

“Is he a serious person?”

Miriam thought about Eitan sitting on the bench at the botanical gardens, speaking honestly about the things that mattered to him.

“Yes,” she said. “Very serious about the things he believes in. But he also laughs a lot. And he’s curious. He asks questions.”

Her mother smiled faintly.

“That sounds good.”

“It is.”

“Then let us meet him.”

Miriam went back to the parsley, relieved.

A few minutes later, her mother added, “I hope he likes the chicken.”

“I think he will.”

“And the soup.”

“Ima.”

“What? I am allowed to want people to enjoy my cooking.”

Miriam smiled. She knew her mother was doing what she always did when something mattered to her: making sure there would be enough food.

Eitan arrived a little before candle-lighting time, carrying a small package of kosher chocolates for the family.

He was wearing a dark green Shabbat suit, beautifully tailored, with a crisp white shirt and a bow tie in a subdued burgundy pattern. His very dark plum fedora sat neatly on his head.

Miriam opened the door.

For one second, she simply looked at him.

He smiled.

“Hello, Miriam.”

“Hello.”

“You look lovely.”

She was wearing a modest blue dress and had taken care to make herself presentable without feeling as though she were dressed for an examination.

“Thank you. You look very nice too.”

He glanced down at his suit.

“I did consider wearing black, but I thought that might cause unnecessary confusion.”

Miriam burst out laughing.

“You cannot say that to my mother.”

“I shall try to restrain myself.”

Her mother appeared in the hallway before Miriam could answer.

“Shabbat shalom, Eitan. Welcome.”

“Shabbat shalom. Thank you very much for inviting me.”

He greeted her respectfully and offered the chocolates.

“You shouldn’t have brought anything,” Miriam’s mother said, accepting them.

“I know. But I thought it would be nice to bring something for the table.”

“That is very thoughtful of you.”

Her eyes moved briefly over his suit, taking in the green fabric, the bow tie, and the plum hat. She was too well-mannered to stare, but Miriam could tell that she was making an effort to reconcile the man in front of her with the image she had formed from her daughter’s descriptions.

Eitan, apparently unaware of any difficulty, smiled warmly.

“Your daughter has told me how wonderful your Shabbat meals are. I have been looking forward to this.”

Miriam’s mother brightened.

“Has she? Well, I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

“I don’t think I could be.”

Miriam watched her mother soften.

It was difficult to remain suspicious of someone who looked at your cooking with such sincere anticipation.

Her father came out of the sitting room and shook Eitan’s hand.

“Shabbat shalom. I’m glad you could join us.”

“Shabbat shalom. Thank you for having me.”

Her father, too, noticed the clothes. Miriam could practically see him registering the green suit and bow tie.

But he said only, “Come in. You must be hungry.”

“I certainly am.”

“Good. Then you are already in the right place.”

They all laughed, and the first small obstacle passed.

The table was set, the candles were lit, and the family gathered for Shabbat.

Miriam had sat at this table hundreds of times. She knew the familiar rhythm: the singing, the Kiddush, the washing of hands, the bread, the food being passed from one person to another. She knew where her father would pause to find the right page, where her mother would quietly remind someone to pass the salad, and which child would inevitably ask for something just as everyone had settled down.

But tonight, she was conscious of every little thing.

She noticed how Eitan waited patiently when the younger children interrupted. She noticed that he sang the familiar melodies with confidence, joining in without trying to take over. She noticed that when her father made a small mistake in the wording of a blessing and corrected himself, Eitan did not draw attention to it.

He seemed comfortable in the rituals, but not self-important about them.

When they sat down to eat, Miriam’s father began with a thought about the weekly parashah. He spoke about the relationship between intention and action, and how easy it was to imagine that being a good person was simply a matter of believing the right things.

Eitan listened attentively.

Then her father asked, “What do you think?”

Miriam felt a little flutter of anxiety. It was the sort of question that could lead to a very long discussion.

Eitan considered his answer.

“I think intention matters, but I also think it can become a way of excusing ourselves. A person can have very good intentions and still cause harm. At some point, we have to look at what we actually do.”

Her father nodded slowly.

“Yes. I think that is right.”

Eitan continued, carefully.

“And I wonder whether the difficulty is that we like to judge ourselves by our intentions, but other people have to live with our actions.”

There was a brief silence.

Miriam’s father looked at him with new interest.

“That is well put.”

Miriam looked down at her plate to hide her smile.

Her mother, who had been listening while serving the chicken, said, “And perhaps we should also remember that people sometimes do good things without thinking about them very much. If you wait until every action has been properly examined, you might never get around to helping anyone.”

Eitan turned towards her.

“That’s true too. Perhaps the question is whether we are willing to think about the consequences afterwards, and change what we do when we discover we’ve made a mistake.”

Her mother considered that.

“I like that.”

Miriam’s father looked thoughtful.

“So do I.”

Miriam felt an unexpected warmth. Eitan had not tried to impress them with obscure learning or prove that he was more sophisticated than they were. He had simply entered the conversation as himself.

Her father asked him about his work, and Eitan explained what he liked about architecture. He spoke about the importance of understanding how people actually used buildings, rather than designing something that looked beautiful on paper but made daily life difficult.

Her mother asked whether that meant he spent a great deal of time arguing with builders.

“Quite a lot,” Eitan admitted.

“Then you are prepared for family life,” she said.

Miriam nearly choked on her water.

Eitan laughed.

“I hope so. Though I suspect builders may be easier to negotiate with than teenagers.”

“Teenagers have very strong opinions,” Miriam said.

“Builders have very strong opinions too,” Eitan replied. “But at least you can sometimes persuade a builder with a drawing.”

Her father laughed so hard that he had to put down his fork.

“Have you ever tried persuading a teenager with a drawing?” he asked.

“No,” Eitan said. “But I am beginning to think I should.”

Miriam looked at him with growing affection.

He was not merely getting through the meal. He was enjoying himself.

By the time they reached the main course, the conversation had become so lively that Miriam’s mother had to remind everyone to eat before the food went cold.

Her father and Eitan had discovered a shared interest in old Jerusalem buildings. They talked about courtyards, stonework, the changes in neighbourhoods over the years, and the way families adapted their homes to new needs.

Eitan explained how a seemingly minor renovation could reveal something about the history of a building.

“Sometimes you find an old doorway that’s been blocked up,” he said. “You can tell that the layout used to be different. And then you start asking why. Was a room divided? Did a family grow? Did the building have a different use?”

Her father leaned forward.

“And sometimes you find that the person who made the change had no idea they were altering something historically important.”

“Exactly. They were simply trying to make their home work better.”

Miriam’s father nodded enthusiastically.

“That is what fascinates me about old houses. The people who lived in them weren’t trying to create history. They were trying to live their lives.”

Miriam smiled. She had said almost the same thing to Eitan on their first date.

He glanced at her, and she realised that he remembered too.

Her mother, meanwhile, was asking Eitan about his family. He spoke affectionately about his parents, his siblings, and the lively discussions that took place around their Shabbat table.

“Does your father also talk about the parashah for a long time?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

“And do you agree with him?”

“Sometimes.”

She laughed.

“That sounds familiar.”

“He is a very good person to argue with,” Eitan said. “He doesn’t always agree with me, but he lets me finish speaking.”

Miriam’s father raised an eyebrow.

“That is an important quality.”

“It is,” Eitan agreed.

“And what about your mother?” Miriam’s mother asked. “Does she agree with you?”

Eitan smiled.

“My mother is much more dangerous. My father may disagree with my argument, but my mother remembers every foolish thing I’ve said since I was six.”

Miriam’s mother laughed with delight.

“That is what mothers are for.”

Eitan looked at her.

“Then I suspect you and my mother would get along very well.”

“I hope so.”

Miriam watched the exchange with a feeling she had not quite expected.

She had been so worried that her parents would find Eitan strange that she had forgotten how much they enjoyed meeting people who were warm, thoughtful, and interested in them.

His clothes were still unusual. Her father occasionally glanced at the bow tie with a faintly puzzled expression. But it was becoming less important. The person wearing it was winning their attention.

When her mother served the next dish, Eitan complimented it with such evident sincerity that she asked for his opinion on the seasoning.

“It’s excellent,” he said. “Though I am afraid I don’t know enough about cooking to offer a useful analysis.”

“That’s all right. You can eat it without analysing it.”

“I shall try.”

Miriam’s father laughed.

“Be careful. In this family, if you praise something too much, you may be asked to help make it next week.”

“I would be happy to learn,” Eitan said.

Her mother looked delighted.

Miriam wondered whether Eitan realised that he had just made himself very popular indeed.

After the meal, they moved to the sitting room. The children were eventually sent to bed, the table was cleared, and the adults settled with fruit and tea.

Miriam had expected the conversation to become more formal once the meal was over. Instead, her father and Eitan resumed their discussion about buildings, while her mother asked Eitan about his interests outside work.

He spoke about books, about walking through the city, and about his habit of visiting old neighbourhoods simply to see what he could notice.

“Do you ever go somewhere without trying to learn something from it?” her mother asked, smiling.

“Certainly.”

“Where?”

Eitan paused.

Miriam began to grin.

“I seem to have made a mistake.”

Her mother laughed.

“You see? You have to be careful what you say in this house.”

Eitan looked at Miriam.

“Is everyone here always like this?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then I shall have to prepare myself.”

“Perhaps we can design a training programme,” her father suggested.

Eitan considered this seriously.

“Would there be examinations?”

“Only oral ones.”

“Then I shall never pass.”

Miriam laughed, and her father shook his head, smiling.

It was easy. That was what surprised her most. Eitan was not trying to become part of the family by pretending to be exactly like them. He was simply being a guest who took an interest in his hosts, and her parents were responding to him as people rather than as representatives of a category.

At one point, her mother asked him whether he had always dressed so distinctively.

Eitan glanced at his suit.

“More or less. I’ve experimented with different styles over the years.”

“And people don’t comment?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you say?”

He thought about it.

“Usually, I say that I like the clothes.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. I don’t think I need a philosophical defence for every preference I have.”

Her mother smiled.

“I suppose not.”

He added, “Though I do understand why people are curious. In our communities, clothes often tell people something about where you belong. I don’t want to be disrespectful of that. I simply don’t think there’s only one way to be a serious Orthodox Jew.”

Her father, who had been listening, nodded.

“I think we sometimes confuse familiarity with principle,” he said. “We become accustomed to a certain way of doing things, and after a while we forget which parts are essential and which are simply what we’re used to.”

Eitan looked at him with genuine appreciation.

“Yes. That’s very much how I feel.”

Miriam felt something settle inside her.

Her father was not going to agree with every choice Eitan made. Her mother might always think black would be more appropriate for a Shabbat suit. But they were listening. They were trying to understand.

And Eitan was not asking them to abandon their own habits. He was simply asking, by the way he lived, to be allowed to have his own.

Her mother looked at his bow tie again.

“I must admit,” she said, “I am not accustomed to seeing a young man dressed like that.”

“I understand.”

“But I think you look very smart.”

Eitan smiled.

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

Miriam’s father laughed.

“Be careful, Eitan. You are now officially approved, and that means you will be expected to visit again.”

“I would be very happy to.”

Miriam looked at him quickly.

He met her eyes and smiled.

She felt her cheeks warm.

It was late when Eitan finally stood to leave.

He had stayed long enough for the conversation to wander from architecture to family stories, from family stories to Jewish philosophy, and from Jewish philosophy to the question of whether the best way to judge a person was by what they said, what they did, or how they treated people who could offer them nothing in return.

Miriam’s father had enjoyed the discussion so much that he had twice forgotten to look at the clock.

Her mother packed a small container of leftover cake for Eitan to take home, despite his protest that she really didn’t need to.

“Nonsense,” she said. “You must have something for tomorrow.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

“And next time, you must come earlier. There are some things I wanted to ask you about your work.”

“I would be delighted.”

Her mother smiled.

“Good. And perhaps you can tell me what sort of building would be best if we ever renovate the kitchen.”

Eitan laughed.

“I shall have to warn you that my professional advice may involve a drawing.”

“I shall be prepared.”

Miriam stood beside him in the hallway while he put on his coat and adjusted his fedora.

“Thank you for inviting me,” he said to her parents. “I had a wonderful evening.”

“We enjoyed having you,” her father replied. “You must come again.”

“I would like that very much.”

Her mother gave him a warm smile.

“Shabbat shalom, Eitan. And travel safely.”

“Shabbat shalom. Thank you again.”

Then he turned to Miriam.

“I’ll message you after Shabbat?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “I’d like that.”

He wished her Shabbat shalom, and she wished him the same. They parted without any need to make the moment more dramatic than it was.

Miriam watched him walk down the path, his green suit and plum hat gradually disappearing into the evening.

When she returned to the sitting room, her father was still smiling.

“Well,” he said.

Miriam braced herself.

“Well, what?”

Her father looked at her, amused.

“I think he is a very interesting young man.”

Her mother came in carrying the empty tea tray.

“I think so too.”

Miriam tried to appear calm.

“You do?”

Her mother gave her a fond look.

“Yes, sweetheart. He is polite, thoughtful, and genuinely interested in other people. He listened to your father for a very long time without once pretending to know something he didn’t know. He was interested in my cooking. He asked questions. He made us laugh.”

Her father nodded.

“And he has opinions of his own. I appreciate that.”

There was a pause.

Then her mother added, “I still don’t understand the bow tie.”

Miriam burst out laughing.

“Ima!”

“What? I can like the young man and still wonder about the bow tie.”

Her father chuckled.

“I thought it suited him.”

“Of course you did. You are both interested in architecture. You probably think the bow tie is a structural feature.”

Miriam laughed until her eyes watered.

Then her mother came over and kissed her forehead.

“He seems to make you happy.”

Miriam’s smile softened.

“He does.”

“Good.”

Her mother didn’t ask whether she thought Eitan might be the one. She didn’t ask when he would come again, or whether Miriam had begun imagining a wedding. She simply sat beside her daughter for a moment, pleased to see her happy.

Her father returned to his book, though Miriam noticed that he was still smiling to himself.

Later, when she was alone in her room, Miriam thought about the evening.

She had wanted her parents to like Eitan because she liked him. She had worried that they might see his clothes and his unconventional manner before they saw the person beneath them.

But they had seen him.

They had seen the man who listened carefully, laughed easily, took his beliefs seriously without making them a weapon, and treated people with warmth. They had seen someone who could disagree without humiliating anyone, and who could be different without demanding that everyone else become different too.

Miriam realised that she had been holding her breath all evening.

Now she could breathe.

Her phone remained off for Shabbat, and she didn’t know whether Eitan would message her afterwards to say he had enjoyed the evening as much as she had. But she felt confident that he would.

And for once, her happiness wasn’t only about whether a man wanted to see her again.

It was about the fact that someone she liked had come into her home, met the people she loved, and made the room feel a little warmer.

She went to bed with the pleasant thought that perhaps, next Shabbat, there might be another place at the table for a man in a green suit and a plum-coloured hat.

By Thursday evening, Miriam had changed her outfit three times.

The first dress was too formal. The second was perfectly respectable but, once she put it on, made her feel as though she were attending a job interview for the position of Wife. The third was a dark blue dress she liked very much, with small embroidered flowers around the cuffs.

She stood in front of the mirror, considering it.

“Flowers,” she told her reflection. “Not a declaration of war. Just flowers.”

Her phone buzzed.

Raven: How goes the diplomatic mission to the family of the man with the hat?

Miriam: I am choosing an outfit.

Raven: Ah. The ancient female ritual of trying on every garment one owns in order to look as though one has never tried on a garment in her life.

Miriam: I hate you.

Raven: No, you don’t. Wear the flowers.

Miriam looked at herself again. The dress was modest, comfortable, and pretty. She liked it. She wanted to wear it.

That seemed reason enough.

She sent Raven a photograph of the dress laid out on her bed, with her navy cardigan and matching shoes.

Raven: Excellent. You look like a person who might be trusted with the family silver but would also have interesting opinions about it.

Miriam: I haven’t even put it on yet.

Raven: I have confidence in the flowers.

Miriam laughed and began getting ready.

She had been invited to Eitan’s parents for Shabbat dinner. His mother had called Miriam’s mother earlier in the week to arrange the details, and the two women had apparently discovered a great deal in common in the space of fifteen minutes. Miriam had received a message from Eitan afterward.

My mother says she is looking forward to meeting you. She also says I should have warned her earlier so she could make something special.

Wasn’t she already making Shabbat dinner? Miriam had replied.

Yes. But apparently ordinary Shabbat dinner is not sufficiently special for a guest.

What does she intend to cook?

I have been advised that this is not a question I should ask.

Now, as Miriam made her way through Jerusalem on Friday afternoon, carrying a small box of chocolates she had bought for the hosts, she found herself smiling at the thought of Eitan’s mother preparing some elaborate meal on her account.

Then she began to worry.

What if his parents were kind to her because they felt sorry for him? What if they had decided that any pleasant, observant young woman who could tolerate his bow ties and unusual hats was a rare and precious resource to be secured immediately?

And what if she, Miriam, had somehow become that resource?

She stopped on the pavement.

“No,” she told herself quietly.

She was going to have dinner with a family. She would be polite, eat the food, enjoy the company, and see what she thought of them. They were not a committee interviewing her for a position, and she was not a candidate whose application needed to be approved.

Besides, she already knew she liked Eitan.

She was allowed to like his family, too.

Eitan met her at the building entrance.

He was wearing his dark green suit again, though this time the bow tie was a deep blue patterned with tiny gold squares. His plum fedora sat at its usual angle.

He looked at the chocolates in her hand.

“You brought something.”

“It’s customary to bring something when invited for Shabbat.”

“Of course. I only mention it because my mother will now be able to say that you have excellent manners.”

“Would she have concluded otherwise if I came empty-handed?”

“She would never say so aloud.”

“Eitan.”

“She would tell my father. My father would tell me. I would be required to consider the moral implications for several weeks.”

Miriam laughed.

“Your family sounds very intimidating.”

“We try to maintain an atmosphere of quiet menace.”

He took her coat and led her upstairs.

The door opened before they reached it.

“Miriam!”

Eitan’s mother stood in the doorway, smiling broadly. She was a small woman with bright eyes, a neatly covered head, and the unmistakable air of someone who had been waiting beside the door for at least five minutes while insisting to her husband that she was not waiting beside the door.

“Come in, come in. You must be cold. Eitan, why did you make her stand in the stairwell?”

“We were walking up the stairs, Ima.”

“Yes, well. You could have walked faster.”

She turned immediately back to Miriam.

“I am so happy you could come. I hope Eitan told you the time correctly. He has a very flexible relationship with clocks when he is reading.”

“He was perfectly punctual,” Miriam assured her.

His mother gave her a look of tender understanding.

“Of course he was. You were coming.”

Miriam felt a little warmth rise in her cheeks.

Behind his mother stood Eitan’s father, a broad-shouldered man with a greying beard and a deeply lined, thoughtful face. He shook Miriam’s hand warmly and took the chocolates.

“Very kind of you. Though I suspect my wife has prepared enough food to feed the entire neighbourhood.”

“Only the people who deserve it,” his wife said.

“And how does one qualify?”

“By coming to dinner.”

“Then we shall have to invite more people.”

“You may invite them. I shall not cook for them.”

His father looked at Miriam.

“You see what I live with?”

“I imagine you are very happy,” Miriam said.

His mother laughed. “Oh, she is clever, too!”

Miriam was beginning to suspect that she was going to have a very pleasant evening.

The table was set with white cloth, silver candlesticks, a polished kiddush cup, and a small vase of yellow flowers. There were several salads, two kinds of fish, soup, and a large platter of chicken waiting on the kitchen counter. The smell of freshly baked challah filled the room.

Eitan’s mother had indeed prepared enough food for the entire neighbourhood.

Miriam was introduced to Eitan’s younger sister, Tzipora, who was home from seminary for the weekend, and his older brother, who arrived just before candle-lighting with his wife and a sleepy toddler. The family was lively without being overwhelming. Everyone seemed to have a story about everyone else, and the stories were told with affection, mock exasperation, and the occasional correction from the person being discussed.

At candle-lighting, Miriam stood beside Eitan’s mother and watched the flames flicker in the polished silver.

There was something comforting about the familiar rhythm of it. The same blessings, the same small movements, the same quiet transition from the working week to Shabbat. She had felt at home in other people’s houses before, of course, but this was different. She was being welcomed into a family whose son she was beginning to care about.

That thought made her nervous again.

She tried to set it aside.

At the table, Eitan’s father made kiddush, and everyone answered amen. Eitan sang Shalom Aleichem in a clear, slightly old-fashioned melody. His father joined him, then his mother, and soon the whole table was singing. Miriam knew the tune, but the family added a small flourish at the end of each verse, and she found herself smiling as she tried to follow.

“You know that version?” Tzipora whispered.

“Not exactly.”

“It changes every year. Abba insists it is the authentic family tradition.”

“I heard that,” their father said.

“You were meant to,” she replied.

Eitan leaned slightly toward Miriam.

“Last year he tried to introduce a second verse.”

“It was a very good verse,” his father protested.

“It was from a different melody,” Eitan said.

“It was still a very good verse.”

Miriam laughed so suddenly that she nearly dropped her challah.

His mother looked delighted.

“There! Eitan, you see? Someone appreciates our family.”

“I have always appreciated our family.”

“Yes, but you usually express it by disappearing into a book.”

“I thought that was one of the family traditions.”

His father pointed at him with his kiddush cup.

“That is a fair criticism.”

Miriam felt the last of her nervousness begin to loosen.

The meal itself was wonderful. The fish was delicate and lemony, the soup rich without being heavy, and the chicken practically fell apart beneath her fork. Eitan’s mother watched her take the first bite of each dish with an expression of such earnest hope that Miriam made a point of telling her how much she liked it.

“You really do?” his mother asked when Miriam praised the chicken.

“It’s delicious.”

“I tried a different seasoning this week.”

“Then I’m glad you did.”

His mother looked almost triumphant.

“Eitan, did you hear?”

“I was present, Ima.”

“She likes the chicken.”

“I am delighted that the chicken has made a good impression.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. It is not becoming.”

“I shall work on my character.”

“You have been working on your character for twenty-seven years. We are still waiting for results.”

His brother nearly choked on his drink.

Eitan only bowed his head gravely.

“Perhaps I should consult a different teacher.”

His mother shook her head, but she was smiling.

Miriam watched them and felt a little ache of longing—not the old, sharp longing for the life she thought she had failed to achieve, but something gentler. She had always wanted to be part of a family like this: people who teased one another because they knew they were loved, who could disagree over a melody or a recipe without anyone fearing the relationship would break.

She had not been foolish to want that.

She had only been foolish to believe that she had to earn the right to want it by becoming a different person.

After the fish and before the chicken, Eitan’s father turned to her.

“So, Miriam. Eitan tells us you teach.”

“Yes. Mostly younger children.”

“What do you enjoy about it?”

She had expected questions about her family, her education, perhaps her plans. She had not expected to be asked what she enjoyed.

“Seeing them become confident,” she said after a moment. “Especially the ones who come in convinced that they can’t do something. Sometimes they don’t need a better explanation. They need someone to sit beside them until they’re willing to try.”

His father nodded thoughtfully.

“That is true of adults as well.”

“Especially adults,” Eitan said.

His father gave him a long look.

“Are you referring to yourself?”

“Would I do that?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suppose I am.”

His mother smiled at Miriam. “He was a very sensitive child. He used to come home upset because the other boys laughed at his questions.”

Eitan looked down at his plate.

“I asked a lot of questions.”

“You asked why the world had to be made in six days if God was not subject to time,” his father said. “At the age of eight.”

“It seemed a reasonable question.”

“It was a reasonable question. It was also a question that made your cheder rebbe want to lie down.”

“Did he answer it?” Miriam asked.

His father laughed.

“He gave Eitan a book.”

“Which I read,” Eitan said.

“Of course you did.”

“And then he asked another question,” Tzipora added.

“Several,” said his mother. “At the Shabbat table. At breakfast. On family trips. Once during a visit to the dentist.”

“The dentist had said I could ask questions while he worked.”

“You asked him whether teeth had a purpose beyond chewing.”

“He was a dentist. It seemed relevant.”

Miriam was laughing again, and Eitan was watching her with an expression she was beginning to recognize: a quiet happiness that seemed to surprise him a little each time it appeared.

His mother noticed it, too.

She did not say anything. She only glanced at her husband, and the two of them exchanged a look that was brief but unmistakable.

Miriam saw it.

She looked down at her plate.

Oh.

She knew that look. She had seen it at other people’s Shabbat tables, at engagements, at weddings, in the subtle glances exchanged by parents when their son or daughter seemed to have found someone.

Only this time, the look was directed at her.

She could almost hear the unspoken conversation.

She is kind.

And she listens to him.

She laughs at his jokes.

She doesn’t seem frightened of the questions.

And she is lovely.

Miriam’s cheeks warmed.

It was flattering. It was also a little frightening, because she could feel how quickly a pleasant dinner could become an imagined future: a wedding, a new home, children, years of Shabbat meals. Her mind had always been very good at running ahead to the ending and then judging the present by whether it seemed likely to reach it.

She took a sip of water and deliberately brought herself back to the table.

Eitan was telling his brother about a building he had recently visited, and his brother was explaining that no ordinary person could be expected to care about the arrangement of windows on a nineteenth-century façade.

“People cared enough to build them,” Eitan replied.

“People also cared enough to invent decorative cushions. That doesn’t mean I need to spend an afternoon discussing them.”

“Your wife spends a great deal of time discussing cushions.”

“My wife has excellent taste.”

“Then perhaps you should be more curious about it.”

His sister-in-law raised her glass.

“Finally, someone has said it.”

The conversation moved on, and Miriam found herself joining in. She asked Eitan’s father about an old synagogue he had mentioned, and he described its renovation with such enthusiasm that he began drawing the layout on a paper napkin. Eitan corrected one detail about the original entrance. His father corrected Eitan’s correction. Tzipora announced that they were both wrong, and the brother-in-law declared that this was why he avoided history.

Miriam was perfectly happy.

No one asked her to demonstrate that she was sufficiently clever, sufficiently thin, sufficiently accomplished, or sufficiently anything. They asked her what she thought. They listened to the answer. They laughed with her, not at her.

And whenever she spoke, Eitan seemed genuinely interested.

Not in the way a young man might listen while waiting for his turn to speak, or while mentally checking items off a list. He looked at her as though the answer mattered because it was hers.

It was a small thing.

It was also not a small thing at all.

After the meal, they sang zemirot. Eitan’s mother had a lovely voice, and his father sang loudly enough to compensate for anyone else’s shortcomings. The toddler had fallen asleep against his mother’s shoulder. Tzipora leaned back in her chair and sang with her eyes half-closed.

Miriam knew most of the songs. When she hesitated over a verse, Eitan quietly helped her find the words.

She wondered what it would be like to sing beside him every Friday night.

The thought arrived so naturally that it startled her.

She did not push it away, but neither did she let it grow into a promise the evening had not made. She simply allowed herself to imagine it, the way she might imagine a room in a house she had not yet visited.

After bentching, Eitan’s mother brought out fruit, nuts, and a cake that had been hidden somewhere in the kitchen. Miriam stared at it.

“I thought we were finished eating.”

His mother looked genuinely puzzled.

“We have finished dinner.”

“Isn’t cake part of dinner?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what is it part of?”

“Shabbat.”

Eitan, who had just taken a piece, nodded solemnly. “It is an important distinction.”

His father reached for another slice.

“Your mother has been explaining it to me for thirty years.”

“And yet,” she said, “you continue to confuse the categories.”

Miriam accepted a small piece of cake.

It was rich, with cinnamon and chopped nuts, and she took another bite before she remembered that she had been trying to lose weight.

The old reflex arrived quickly: the quiet calculation, the little voice asking whether she ought to stop, whether she had eaten too much, whether she should compensate tomorrow.

Then Eitan’s mother began telling a story about Eitan at the age of eleven, when he had insisted on wearing a bright orange scarf because he had read that it was a historically accurate colour for a certain period. His father interrupted to point out that the scarf was not, in fact, historically accurate. Eitan protested that the book had referred to a different century. His mother said that no century had ever required her son to dress like a traffic cone.

Miriam laughed so hard she had to put down her fork.

And the little voice about the cake faded.

She was having a good evening. She was allowed to eat cake at a good evening.

What a peculiar thing, to discover that permission.

Later, when the other guests had gone home and the toddler was asleep in the spare room, Eitan’s mother began clearing the table. Miriam rose to help.

“No, no,” she said automatically, when Eitan’s mother tried to stop her. “Please. I don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t mind. That is exactly why I am telling you to sit down.”

Miriam paused.

It was not a rejection of her help. It was an insistence that she was a guest, and that being a guest meant she did not have to earn her place by making herself useful.

She sat.

Eitan’s mother brought the last plates into the kitchen and returned with tea for the two of them. She sat beside Miriam on the sofa, while Eitan and his father began a discussion about a book in the other room.

For a little while they spoke about ordinary things: Miriam’s school, Tzipora’s studies, the difficulty of finding good shoes that were both comfortable and suitable for Shabbat.

Then Eitan’s mother said, rather casually, “Eitan seems very happy lately.”

Miriam felt her stomach tighten.

“I’m glad.”

“He doesn’t always find it easy to meet people.”

She waited.

“He has always been a little… particular.”

There was no malice in the word. It was said with the affection of a mother who had spent years watching her son approach the world from a slightly different angle.

“He thinks about things differently,” Miriam said.

“Yes. And he has very strong ideas about colours.”

Miriam smiled. “I’ve noticed.”

“And hats.”

“I’ve noticed those, too.”

His mother gave a small laugh, then became more thoughtful.

“When he was younger, people sometimes found him difficult to understand. He was never rude, but he didn’t always know when to stop explaining something. And he was never very interested in doing things simply because everyone else did them.”

“I don’t think that is a bad thing.”

“No,” his mother said. “Neither do I. Not really. But the world can be hard on people who don’t fit neatly into it.”

Miriam thought of Eitan standing in the park in his green suit, asking her out with a nervousness that had been almost as endearing as his hat. She thought of the way he had listened when she spoke about Raven, and the way he had talked about Torah without pretending that every question had an easy answer.

“I think he’s a good man,” she said.

Eitan’s mother looked at her.

For a moment, all the casualness fell away from her face. What remained was something tender and hopeful.

“Yes,” she said softly. “He is.”

Then, as if she had revealed more than she intended, she reached for her tea.

“And he needs someone who can tell him when he is being ridiculous.”

“I imagine he has plenty of people who do that.”

“His father tries. His father is often wrong.”

From the other room came a loud protest.

“I heard that!”

“You were meant to!”

Miriam laughed.

Eitan’s mother looked pleased.

“I think you understand him.”

The sentence was simple. It was not a formal declaration or a question about marriage. She did not ask whether Miriam could see herself as Eitan’s wife. She did not ask what her parents thought or whether the matchmaker had been informed.

But Miriam heard what lay beneath it.

I think you might be good for my son.

And perhaps, just as importantly:

I think my son might be good for you.

She looked down at her cup.

“I like spending time with him,” she said carefully. “I’m still getting to know him.”

“Of course,” his mother said at once. “Of course you are.”

There was no disappointment in her voice, only a small nod of approval, as though Miriam had given exactly the right answer.

“We are not trying to marry him off by next Thursday,” she added.

From the other room, Eitan called, “That is reassuring, Ima.”

His mother raised her voice. “I said next Thursday. I made no promises about Friday.”

His father laughed.

Miriam was still smiling when Eitan appeared in the doorway.

“What are you two plotting?”

“Nothing,” said his mother.

“That is generally what people say when they are plotting.”

“We were discussing your good qualities.”

“Then I am glad I arrived in time to hear them.”

“We had finished.”

“Ah.”

He looked at Miriam. She tried not to laugh at the expression on his face.

“I see,” he said. “You have been speaking to my mother.”

“She has been very kind.”

“That is what she does when she likes someone. She is kind to them until they begin to suspect she has an ulterior motive.”

“Eitan!” his mother exclaimed.

“What? You told me that yourself.”

“I told you that when you were twelve and trying to avoid visiting your aunt.”

“I was correct about the ulterior motive. She wanted to give me a sweater.”

“She was your aunt!”

“It was a very ugly sweater.”

Miriam laughed again, and Eitan looked at her with a smile that was quieter than his jokes.

For a second, the noise of the family seemed to recede. She could see that he was pleased she had come, and perhaps a little anxious about whether she had enjoyed herself.

“I had a lovely time,” she told him.

His face relaxed.

“Good. I was hoping you would.”

“I really did.”

“I know. But I was hoping.”

It was such an honest answer that she felt something soften inside her.

When the time came for Miriam to leave, Eitan’s mother insisted on walking her to the door.

“It’s dark, and you shouldn’t have to walk alone,” she said, already reaching for her cardigan.

“I’ll walk with her, Ima,” Eitan said.

“Of course you will. I am coming too.”

Eitan gave Miriam a look of mild resignation.

“My mother has decided that you are now a family responsibility.”

“I heard that,” his mother said.

“I intended you to.”

She laughed and fetched her coat.

They walked through the quiet Jerusalem streets together, Eitan on Miriam’s other side, his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark green suit. The Sabbath evening was peaceful, the streets mostly empty, the warm lights of Shabbat still glowing in apartment windows. Every so often they passed another family returning from a meal, children walking sleepily beside their parents.

Eitan’s mother asked Miriam whether she had enjoyed the food, whether she had been comfortable, and whether she would come again.

“I had a wonderful time,” Miriam assured her. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“I’m so glad. You must come again soon. Perhaps next time when Tzipora is home for longer.”

“I would love to.”

“Good. And next time I shall make the fish you like.”

“You don’t have to make something special for me.”

His mother gave her a look.

“Of course I do. You’re a guest.”

Eitan glanced at Miriam. “I tried explaining that to her. She considers it a religious obligation.”

“It is a religious obligation,” his mother said firmly. “Hospitality.”

“I believe the obligation is to welcome the guest, not to produce a different fish for every occasion.”

“Perhaps you should write a responsum about it.”

“I’ll consult my sources.”

Miriam laughed. She was beginning to understand where Eitan had acquired his particular talent for answering a serious question with a perfectly straight face.

His mother looked pleased that she had made Miriam laugh, and Miriam found herself wondering how many times she had seen that same expression on her son’s face when he was younger. Perhaps she had always hoped he would find someone with whom he could be so at ease.

They walked for a little while in companionable silence.

Then Eitan’s mother said, “You know, Eitan was telling us about your work with the children.”

Miriam glanced at him. “You told them about that?”

“Of course,” he said. “It was something you spoke about that mattered to you.”

His mother nodded. “He said you have a great deal of patience.”

“I don’t know about that. Children can be very good at finding the limits of one’s patience.”

“Then perhaps you have the right kind,” she said. “The kind that knows the limits are there and stays anyway.”

Miriam was touched by the remark. She had spent so long thinking about all the things she wasn’t—the woman men wanted, the woman who received a second date, the woman whose matchmaker had an endless list of possibilities—that she sometimes forgot there were people who could look at her and notice what she actually did.

They noticed her patience. Her thoughtfulness. Her ability to listen.

They seemed to like her.

Not because she had convinced them she would make a good wife, but because she was Miriam.

The thought warmed her all the way to her fingertips.

When they reached her building, Eitan’s mother stopped at the entrance.

“Well,” she said, “I shall let you go inside. But thank you for coming. It was lovely to have you.”

“Thank you for having me.”

His mother reached out and gave her arm a gentle squeeze.

“And Miriam?”

“Yes?”

“Eitan seems very happy lately.”

Miriam felt her cheeks grow warm.

“I’ve been happy, too,” she admitted.

His mother smiled. There was something almost wistful in her expression, as though she had been hoping to hear precisely that.

“I’m glad.”

She did not say anything more. She didn’t need to.

Eitan stood beside them, looking suddenly fascinated by a crack in the pavement.

“Good Shabbos,” Miriam said, though Shabbat was not quite over yet.

His mother laughed. “Good Shabbos, sweetheart. We’ll see you again soon.”

Eitan walked her the last few steps to the building entrance while his mother waited on the pavement.

“I hope you had a good time,” he said.

“I really did.”

“Good. I was hoping you would.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I know. I keep hoping.”

Miriam smiled up at him. “Your family is lovely.”

“They can be.”

“And your mother is a wonderful cook.”

“She’ll be delighted to hear that. She’ll also take it as evidence that you should return as soon as possible.”

“I think I’d like to.”

His face brightened, and he made no effort to conceal it.

“Then I shall tell her.”

“Don’t tell her too enthusiastically. She might start planning a menu.”

“She has probably already started.”

Miriam laughed.

For a moment they stood there, neither quite ready to say goodbye. There was no dramatic declaration, no sudden change in the air. Just the two of them, smiling at one another in the quiet street, aware that they were becoming important to each other.

“I’ll call you,” Eitan said.

“I’d like that.”

“Good night, Miriam.”

“Good night, Eitan.”

He turned back toward his mother, who was waiting with an expression of studied innocence.

Miriam watched them walk away together: Eitan tall and thin in his green suit, his plum fedora a dark shape beneath the streetlights, his mother beside him, talking animatedly and occasionally touching his arm to make a point.

She went upstairs with a smile on her face.

By the time Shabbat ended, Miriam had been replaying the evening in her mind so often that she could practically recite her favourite parts.

She waited until she had made Havdalah, then changed into comfortable clothes and sat on her bed with her phone.

For a moment she considered texting Eitan. She wanted to thank him again for the invitation, and she wanted to tell him that she had enjoyed the evening. But she had already said so, and she didn’t want to turn every pleasant feeling into something that needed immediate action.

Instead, she opened Raven’s conversation.

Miriam: Shabbat is over. I have news.

Raven: Is the news that the hat family has accepted you into their secret society?

Miriam: His family likes me!

Raven: Miriam. Of course they like you.

Miriam: You don’t understand. They really like me.

Raven: Ah. So the mother has begun planning the wedding.

Miriam: She has not!

Raven: Has she discussed flowers?

Miriam: No!

Raven: The date?

Miriam: No!

Raven: The venue?

Miriam: Raven!

Raven: All right, all right. Tell me what happened.

Miriam settled more comfortably against her pillows.

Miriam: His mother made an enormous dinner. His father talked about architecture and Torah with Eitan. His sister was lovely. Everyone was funny, and they kept including me in the conversation. I felt completely comfortable.

Raven: That sounds genuinely lovely.

Miriam: It was. And his mother kept looking at us.

Raven: Looking how?

Miriam thought about the glance she had seen pass between Eitan’s parents at the table.

Miriam: You know. The way mothers look when they think their son has finally met a nice girl.

There was a pause.

Raven: Oh, Miriam.

Miriam: What?

Raven: You sound happy.

Miriam stared at the message.

She was happy. Not simply relieved that she had passed some invisible test, not merely excited that a man was still interested in her. She was happy because she had enjoyed the evening, because she had liked his family, because they had seemed to like her, and because Eitan had looked so pleased when she told him she wanted to see him again.

Miriam: I am happy.

Raven: Good. That’s the important part.

Miriam: His mother walked me home with him.

Raven: Both of them? That’s adorable. Was she making sure you got home safely, or making sure you didn’t escape with her son?

Miriam: She said he seems very happy lately.

Raven: Oh, she absolutely likes you.

Miriam: I think she thinks I’d be a suitable wife for him.

Raven: And what do you think?

Miriam paused.

There it was again: Raven’s irritating habit of returning the question to her.

She could almost hear the answer Raven expected. Not whether Eitan’s mother liked her, not whether her own parents approved, not whether she had finally been judged good enough. What did Miriam think?

Miriam: I think I might like being his wife one day.

She read the words again before sending them, her heart beating a little faster.

Then she pressed send.

Raven’s reply came a few seconds later.

Raven: That’s a much more interesting sentence than “his mother thinks I’m suitable.”

Miriam smiled.

Miriam: I know.

Raven: You can be pleased that they like you. You can be excited that he likes you. You can imagine a future. Just remember that you get a say in whether that future is actually what you want.

Miriam: I do want it. Or at least, I want to find out if I want it with him.

Raven: Exactly. That is how getting to know someone works. Astonishing, I know.

Miriam laughed.

Miriam: You’re very annoying.

Raven: And yet you keep me around.

Miriam: Because you’re a good friend.

Raven: Don’t spread that around. It will ruin my reputation.

Miriam put the phone down for a moment and looked around her room. The flowers on her dress, folded neatly over the chair, caught her eye.

She had worn them because she liked them. She had gone to dinner because she wanted to know Eitan better. She had laughed because his family was funny. She had eaten cake because it was delicious.

And now she was sitting in her room, happy.

For years, she had imagined that happiness would begin when a man chose her. Tonight, she had caught a glimpse of something better: a life in which she could be chosen and still be herself, in which other people’s hopes for her did not have to become demands, and in which the possibility of marriage could grow from the simple fact that two people enjoyed one another.

She still wanted a husband. She still wanted children, a home, Shabbat tables filled with singing and the comfortable chaos of family life.

But she was no longer standing outside that imagined house, waiting for someone to open the door.

She was beginning to walk toward it herself.

And somewhere in Jerusalem, Eitan was probably taking off his plum fedora and putting it carefully on a shelf, while his mother told him—quite casually, she would insist—that she thought Miriam was a wonderful young woman.

He would pretend not to know what she meant.

His mother would pretend to believe him.

And both of them would be smiling.

By the time Eitan decided to propose to Miriam, he had been thinking about it for nearly three weeks.

By the time he admitted this to anyone, he had already bought a ring, changed his mind about where to propose twice, and written a draft of what he intended to say that was so painfully formal that his younger sister had read it and asked whether he was proposing marriage or submitting a request to the municipal planning committee.

“You’ve written, ‘Having carefully considered the matter, I have reached the conclusion that our temperaments and aspirations are compatible,’” Tzipora informed him.

“I have.”

“Eitan, you sound like a rabbi issuing a ruling on whether a spoon is dairy.”

“It is important to be precise.”

“It’s a marriage proposal, not a halakhic responsum.”

“Marriage is a serious matter.”

“Of course it is. But if you tell Miriam you’ve carefully considered her, she may assume you’re about to explain why you don’t want her.”

He took the paper back.

“I thought it was a good opening.”

“It is a terrible opening.”

“Then I shall reconsider it.”

“You should start by telling her you love her.”

Eitan stared at her.

Tzipora stared back.

“Oh, Eitan,” she said eventually. “You’ve managed to discuss the architectural history of Jerusalem with her for six hours, but three little words have defeated you.”

“Six hours?”

“I’m exaggerating.”

“Five and a half.”

“See? This is exactly what I mean.”

He folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

He had, in fact, told Miriam that he loved her. Not in those precise words, not yet, but in the small, everyday ways that had gradually become more natural between them. He called her because he wanted to hear her voice. He remembered which children at school had been troubling her and asked how they were doing. He brought her books he thought she would enjoy, and she had begun to send him photographs of interesting buildings whenever she spotted one on her way to work.

Their relationship had grown slowly.

They had gone on more dates, met each other’s friends, spoken about their families and their expectations for marriage. They had disagreed about things that mattered, including some questions of religious practice, and discovered that disagreement did not necessarily lead to disappointment. They had discussed children, money, work, where they might live, and what kind of home they wanted to build.

They had also spent a remarkable amount of time laughing.

Miriam had learned that Eitan could become so absorbed in an old building that he forgot he was supposed to be leading her toward the café they had agreed to visit. Eitan had learned that Miriam sometimes went quiet when she was worried she was asking too much of someone, and that a gentle question was usually more useful than telling her not to worry.

He had also learned that she was far funnier than she initially let herself be.

And Miriam had learned that behind Eitan’s unusual clothes and earnest questions was a man who was kind without being condescending, observant without being self-righteous, and serious without believing that every conversation needed to be solemn.

They had met with their parents. They had spoken frankly about the things they needed from marriage and the things that frightened them. They had given each other enough time to discover that affection could deepen rather than fade when the initial excitement wore off.

Now Eitan knew what he wanted.

He wanted Miriam beside him at the Shabbat table. He wanted to hear her thoughts when they disagreed about something in the news. He wanted to walk through Jerusalem with her and stop whenever she noticed something he had missed. He wanted to make a home with her, raise children with her, and grow old enough that his plum fedora became an embarrassing historical artefact his grandchildren would bring out to make him laugh.

He wanted the ordinary days.

Especially the ordinary days.

He also wanted to ask her properly.

And, having failed to produce a satisfactory proposal on his own, he decided to seek assistance from the most unlikely person he knew.

Raven.

Raven was sitting at a café table when her phone rang.

She looked at the screen.

Eitan.

She had met him several times by now, and they had developed a cautious but genuine respect for one another. She liked that he was willing to speak to her as an adult rather than as a cautionary tale about what happened when Orthodox girls read too many books. He, in turn, had learned that Raven’s black clothes and purple hair were not evidence that she was perpetually plotting to undermine the Jewish people.

Still, she was not entirely sure what he wanted.

“Hello?”

“Shalom, Raven. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“It’s Raven. Disturbing me is practically a hobby. What’s up?”

There was a pause.

“I would like to ask you for some advice.”

“About Miriam?”

“Yes.”

Raven sat up a little straighter.

“Is everything all right?”

“Everything is very well. In fact, that is the problem.”

“That sounds like an excellent problem to have.”

“I intend to ask Miriam to marry me.”

Raven went silent.

Then she slowly put down her cup.

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Oh!”

“I take it that is a positive reaction?”

“I’m deciding. Give me a moment.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, grinning despite herself.

Miriam had talked about Eitan for months. At first, she had sounded astonished that a man could ask her out and actually want to see her again. Then she had begun describing the small things she liked about him. Eventually she had stopped saying, He seems to like me, and started saying, I like him.

That change had meant more to Raven than any romantic declaration.

“Does Miriam know you’re thinking about this?” she asked.

“She knows that I want to marry her. We have discussed it. She knows that I am considering when to ask.”

“Good. I’m glad you haven’t mistaken a surprise proposal for a substitute for an actual conversation.”

“I would never do that.”

“Excellent. Now, what do you need from me?”

“I would like to arrange something special. Something romantic, but not extravagant. Miriam doesn’t enjoy being the centre of attention in front of strangers. I don’t want to embarrass her.”

“Very sensible.”

“And I thought you might know what she would like.”

Raven regarded the ceiling.

There were many things she could say about this situation. She could point out that it was a little surreal to be helping an Orthodox man plan a marriage proposal for her Orthodox friend, given that she herself had left religious belief behind and spent a fair amount of her social life with a coven.

She could mention that the whole thing was rather sweet.

She could, of course, be annoying.

“Eitan,” she said, “are you asking me to help you propose to my best friend?”

“Yes.”

“Me. Raven. Purple hair, moth tattoo, atheist, occasional witchy nonsense.”

“I am aware of your appearance and beliefs.”

“Just checking. I wouldn’t want you to discover halfway through that you had accidentally invited a witch to participate in a Jewish marriage ritual.”

“I was hoping you would help me plan a pleasant evening.”

Raven laughed.

“Oh, I like you.”

“I am relieved.”

“But I have conditions.”

“Of course.”

“First, you are not allowed to make her feel as though she is being examined. No speeches about how she passed the test of being a suitable wife. No lists of her virtues, as though you’re presenting evidence to a rabbinical court.”

“I had not intended to do that.”

“Second, don’t make it public. She should be able to cry, laugh, or tell you that you’re being ridiculous without an audience of strangers filming her.”

“Agreed.”

“Third, make it about her. Not about what your parents want, or what a Jewish home is supposed to look like, or how happy everyone will be when you finally get married. Tell her why you want to marry Miriam.”

Eitan was quiet for a moment.

“That,” he said, “is precisely why I called you.”

Raven’s teasing softened.

“All right. I’m in.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t heard the plan.”

“There is a garden I would like to use. Near an old building she particularly likes. It is quiet, and there is a view of the city. I thought I might arrange for us to walk there near sunset.”

“Good start.”

“I would like flowers.”

“What kind?”

“I thought perhaps white flowers.”

“Why?”

“They are beautiful.”

“Fair enough. But what does Miriam like?”

Eitan hesitated.

“Small flowers. She likes flowers embroidered on things.”

“Then don’t get her a massive arrangement of white roses that looks like you’ve bought out a hotel lobby. Get something gentle, colourful, and a little unusual.”

“Perhaps yellow and purple?”

Raven blinked.

“Yellow and purple?”

“She likes yellow flowers. And you wear purple.”

“I do wear purple. That is not the same as Miriam liking purple.”

“I know. But she has a lavender blouse she likes very much, and she once said that yellow and purple flowers looked like they were having a cheerful argument.”

Raven stared at the phone.

Then she smiled.

“Fine. Yellow and purple. That’s actually rather lovely.”

They spent the next hour planning.

Raven found a florist who could put together a small bouquet of yellow flowers with a few purple ones tucked among them. Eitan arranged for a quiet corner of the garden to be available at the right time. They discussed the weather, the route, and the best way to make sure Miriam didn’t suspect anything.

“She’s going to suspect something,” Raven warned him.

“Why?”

“Because you are behaving strangely.”

“I am always behaving strangely.”

“True. That may work in your favour.”

He laughed.

Raven sat back in her chair.

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“You’re going to have to say something honest and personal. Not a speech you’ve memorised. Tell her what she means to you.”

“I have been trying to write something.”

“Burn it.”

“Burn it?”

“Metaphorically, Eitan. I’m not asking you to violate any fire-safety regulations.”

“I shall try to speak without notes.”

“Good. And if you get nervous, that’s fine. She likes you, not a polished performance.”

There was a pause.

“Raven?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for being her friend.”

For once, Raven did not immediately have a joke ready.

“She is my friend,” she said. “I love her. I want her to be happy.”

“So do I.”

“I know,” Raven said softly. “That’s why I’m helping.”

The following week, Raven invited Miriam to go for a walk.

Miriam agreed, though she was suspicious when Raven insisted that she wear something she liked and not something she considered sufficiently flattering.

“Why are you giving me wardrobe instructions?” Miriam asked over the phone.

“Because you own nice clothes and sometimes behave as though wearing them requires a permit.”

“I do not.”

“You once described a perfectly lovely dress as ‘too noticeable.’”

“It was a bright dress.”

“It was blue.”

“Bright blue.”

“Scandalous. The neighbours might have seen you.”

Miriam laughed.

“What should I wear, then?”

“Something comfortable. Something that makes you feel pretty. And shoes you can walk in.”

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere with trees.”

“That’s not very specific.”

“It’s a city. There are trees everywhere.”

“Raven.”

“Miriam.”

“You’re being suspicious.”

“I’m always suspicious. I’m a goth.”

“That is not what that means.”

“Put on the blue dress.”

Miriam did.

It was a simple dress, modest and comfortable, with small embroidered flowers around the cuffs. She wore her navy cardigan over it and chose the shoes that had carried her through several long walks with Eitan. She brushed her hair, looked in the mirror, and found herself smiling.

She wasn’t dressing to convince anyone she was worthy of marriage.

She was dressing to enjoy her afternoon.

The distinction still felt new enough to be precious.

When she arrived at the agreed meeting place, Raven was waiting with her hands tucked into the pockets of her black coat.

“You look lovely,” Raven said.

Miriam looked down at herself.

“Thank you.”

“And you look comfortable, which is even better.”

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I enjoy being mysterious.”

“You enjoy being irritating.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive qualities.”

They walked together through the streets, talking about school, books, and a minor disaster involving one of Raven’s friends and an ambitious attempt to cut her own fringe.

Miriam was relaxed until she noticed that Raven kept glancing at her phone.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“No.”

“Then why do you keep checking your phone?”

“Because I’m a modern woman. I have a phone. I check it.”

“Raven.”

Raven sighed.

“Fine. I’m waiting for a message.”

“From whom?”

“A person.”

“What person?”

“A person you know.”

Miriam stopped walking.

Raven stopped too.

They stared at each other.

“Is it Eitan?” Miriam asked.

Raven looked toward the sky.

“I’m not answering that.”

“It’s Eitan!”

“Technically, I haven’t answered anything.”

Miriam’s heart began to beat faster.

“What is going on?”

Raven reached out and took both her hands.

“Listen to me. I love you. You know that.”

Miriam’s expression softened.

“Yes.”

“And I know how much you want a home and a family. I know how long you’ve wanted someone who sees you as a whole person, not a collection of qualifications. I know you’ve been learning to believe that you have a life worth living even when you’re not waiting for someone to choose you.”

Miriam’s eyes began to sting.

“Raven…”

“I’m not finished. And I want you to remember something. Whatever happens in the next few minutes, you don’t owe anyone an answer you don’t mean. Not Eitan. Not his parents. Not your parents. Not me. This is your life.”

Miriam stared at her.

Then she whispered, “He’s going to propose, isn’t he?”

Raven’s expression became deeply uncomfortable.

“I was trying to preserve the surprise.”

“You’re terrible at preserving surprises.”

“I have many excellent qualities. Espionage is not among them.”

Miriam gave a shaky laugh, then covered her mouth with one hand.

“Oh, goodness.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. No. Yes.”

“Very clear.”

Miriam took a breath.

She was excited. She was frightened. She was suddenly aware that a door was about to open onto a future she had dreamed about for so long that she had sometimes forgotten it would have to be lived one day at a time.

“Do you want this?” Raven asked gently.

Miriam thought of Eitan’s patience, his humour, his green suit, his ridiculous hat. She thought of their conversations, their disagreements, and the way he had never once made her feel that she needed to audition for his affection.

She thought of the home they had discussed: a Jewish home, full of learning and questions, Shabbat meals, friends, children perhaps, and room for people who saw the world differently. She thought of how carefully they had talked about the difficult things, not because they wanted to eliminate every uncertainty, but because they wanted to face those uncertainties honestly.

“Yes,” she said.

Then, more firmly, “Yes. I want to marry him.”

Raven’s face broke into a smile.

“Then let’s go and find your oddly dressed prince.”

Eitan was waiting in the garden.

He had chosen a quiet spot near an old stone wall, where the late afternoon sun turned the Jerusalem stone a soft gold. Beyond the trees, the city stretched away across the hills. The air was cool, and the leaves rustled gently overhead.

He wore his dark green suit, a white shirt, and a burgundy bow tie. His plum fedora was, of course, present.

Beside him stood a small table with a thermos of tea, two cups, and a vase holding a cheerful arrangement of yellow and purple flowers.

When Miriam saw him, she stopped.

For one brief moment she simply looked at him.

He was standing very straight, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. His hands were clasped in front of him, and when he noticed her expression, he smiled with an almost helpless sort of nervousness.

Raven squeezed Miriam’s hand.

“I’ll be nearby,” she whispered. “Not nearby nearby. Just nearby enough to be useful if he faints.”

“I heard that,” Eitan called.

“You were meant to!”

Miriam laughed, and some of the tightness in her chest eased.

Raven gave her one last squeeze and walked away, disappearing around the bend in the path.

Miriam approached Eitan slowly.

“You arranged all this?”

“Yes.”

“The flowers?”

“Yes.”

“The tea?”

“Yes.”

“The garden?”

“Yes.”

She looked at the flowers again.

“Yellow and purple.”

“You once said they looked as though they were having a cheerful argument.”

Miriam’s eyes filled with tears.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course I remembered.”

He seemed startled by her tears, then looked even more nervous.

“I had planned to say something before you cried,” he admitted.

“I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologise. I just need to remember what it was.”

She laughed through her tears.

He took a breath.

“Miriam, may I tell you something?”

She nodded.

“I have been thinking about what marriage means. Not just the ceremony, or the home, or the children we hope to have. Those things matter to me. I want them very much. But I have been trying to imagine the ordinary life that comes with them.”

He glanced toward the city.

“I imagine us sitting at a Shabbat table when the children are small and the food is getting cold because one of them has asked a question that requires a twenty-minute answer. I imagine you telling me that I’ve misunderstood something, and me explaining why I haven’t, and then discovering that you were right.”

“That’s a very realistic vision of marriage,” Miriam managed.

“I have been studying the evidence.”

She laughed, and he smiled.

“I imagine walking with you through Jerusalem. I imagine coming home after a difficult day and being able to tell you what happened without pretending I am fine. I imagine listening to you talk about your students, and helping you think through the things that worry you. I imagine you doing the same for me.”

He paused.

“I don’t think we will always agree. I don’t think we will always understand each other immediately. And I know that loving someone is not the same as knowing exactly how to love them. I expect we will have to learn.”

Miriam nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“But I want to learn with you,” he said. “I want to build a home with you. I want to be the person you can turn to, not because I will always have the right answer, but because I will be there. I want to know you more deeply as the years go by, and I want you to have the freedom to keep becoming the person you are.”

He looked directly at her.

“And I love you, Miriam. I love your kindness, and your humour, and the way you notice people who are being overlooked. I love that you ask questions, and that you can disagree with me without making me feel that I have to defend my entire existence. I love the way you laugh when something genuinely delights you. And I love that you are learning to do things because they make you happy, rather than because you think you must earn the right to be happy.”

She covered her mouth.

Eitan’s voice grew quieter.

“I don’t want you to marry me because you are relieved that someone has finally asked. I want you to marry me because, having come to know me, you want a life with me. I hope that is what you want. But I need you to know that you are free to tell me no.”

He reached into his jacket pocket.

“I hope you won’t.”

He took out a small ring box.

Miriam began to cry in earnest.

Eitan opened the box. Inside lay a simple gold ring, elegant and unadorned, with a small diamond set into it. It was beautiful without being ostentatious, and it looked like something chosen to last.

He lowered himself onto one knee.

“Miriam, will you marry me?”

For a moment, she couldn’t speak.

All the years of failed dates and disappointed hopes seemed to gather at the edge of her mind. She remembered the bus ride after the matchmaker had told her she had run out of suggestions. She remembered the awful feeling of being left behind while everyone else seemed to move forward into the lives they wanted.

But those memories did not define this moment.

She was not saying yes because she had finally been chosen. She was saying yes because she had come to know this man and had found that she wanted to choose him, too.

She wanted his questions and his laughter. She wanted his kindness, his seriousness, and his very peculiar hats. She wanted to build a Jewish home with him, a home in which they could learn together and disagree honestly, in which their children would know that love was not a reward for being perfect.

She wanted the ordinary days.

She wanted him.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Eitan looked up, his expression almost disbelieving.

“Yes?”

She laughed, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“Yes, Eitan. Yes, I will marry you.”

For one heartbeat, neither moved.

Then Eitan rose, still holding the open ring box, and Miriam reached for him. He took her hands, smiling so broadly that she had never seen him look quite like that before.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

She laughed through her tears.

“I am very sure.”

He slipped the ring onto her finger.

It fitted.

Miriam stared at it, then at him, then back at the ring.

“Oh,” she said.

Eitan looked alarmed. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” She shook her head, laughing. “No, it’s just—it’s real.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “It is.”

She looked up at him.

“I’m going to marry you.”

“If all goes according to plan.”

“Eitan!”

“Sorry. I thought a little humour might be appropriate.”

“I can’t believe you did all this.”

“I had help.”

“Raven?”

“Yes.”

Miriam let out a surprised laugh.

“Of course she was involved.”

“She was very helpful. She also threatened me several times.”

“That sounds like Raven.”

“She said that if I made you feel as though you were taking an examination, she would personally arrange for me to be haunted.”

Miriam burst out laughing.

“She would, too.”

“I believe her.”

Miriam looked at the flowers, then at the ring on her finger. She felt a happiness so full that it almost frightened her, but beneath it was something steadier: the knowledge that she had made this decision freely, with her eyes open, and that the man standing before her had asked her to share his life without asking her to stop being herself.

She had once imagined that being proposed to would prove she was finally good enough.

Instead, Eitan had reminded her that she had always been a whole person, and that marriage was not a prize awarded to the woman who passed the test. It was a promise two people made because they wanted to build something together.

She squeezed his hands.

“I’m so happy,” she whispered.

“So am I.”

“And I really do like the flowers.”

“I was hoping you would.”

“They look like they’re having a cheerful argument.”

“They do.”

She leaned against him, laughing softly.

Somewhere around the bend, Raven was almost certainly pretending not to cry. She would deny it later, of course. She would claim that the evening breeze had irritated her eyes, or that she had been overcome by the sheer ridiculousness of an Orthodox man in a plum fedora proposing marriage with flowers she had helped select.

Miriam knew better.

For now, she didn’t need to call her, or tell anyone, or think about the wedding, or the guest list, or what colour the tablecloths would be.

For now, she only needed to stand beside Eitan in the fading light, her hand in his, the ring bright against her finger.

She had said yes.

And for the first time in her life, the future did not feel like a room she was waiting to be invited into.

It felt like a home they were going to build together.
By Wednesday, both families had agreed that the engagement party would be held the following Sunday evening.

By Thursday, Miriam’s mother had produced a list of guests.

By Friday, Eitan’s mother had produced a list of dishes.

By Shabbat, the two women had spoken on the telephone three times, and Eitan had informed Miriam that he believed their mothers were now conducting a joint operation whose scale exceeded anything he had previously encountered.

“They are planning a party,” Miriam told him.

“They are planning a wedding.”

“They are planning an engagement party.”

“My mother has asked whether we prefer the flowers arranged in low bowls or tall vases.”

“That is a perfectly reasonable question.”

“My father has been asked to locate additional folding tables.”

“Also reasonable.”

“My brother has been instructed to borrow chairs from his synagogue.”

Miriam laughed. “All right. Perhaps they are planning a small wedding.”

“A small wedding with no wedding.”

“Exactly.”

He looked at her for a moment, then smiled.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this.”

Miriam knew what he meant. She was enjoying it. There had been a time when any discussion of weddings had felt like a reminder of everything she did not have. Now, the preparations were connected to a real person she loved, and the people doing the preparations seemed genuinely happy that she was part of their lives.

It was not that all her old insecurities had disappeared. Occasionally, she still caught herself worrying about her dress, or wondering whether someone would think she looked less attractive than Eitan deserved. But the worries no longer had the same authority.

When she found herself staring anxiously at a dress in her wardrobe, she heard Raven’s voice in her head.

You are allowed to like something without needing it to make you marriageable.

So she chose the dark blue dress with embroidered flowers around the cuffs, added a matching cardigan, and decided that was that.

She was going to her own engagement party.

She intended to enjoy it.

The party was held in a function room attached to a local synagogue, large enough for both families and their many relatives, but small enough that everyone could hear the music and talk across the tables. The room had been decorated with flowers, white tablecloths, and strings of warm lights. At one end stood a long table laden with food: salads, pastries, fish, fruit, cakes, and enough small plates to feed a small army.

Miriam arrived with her parents, her father carrying a box of chocolates that her mother had insisted they bring even though both families had already prepared more food than anyone could possibly eat.

Eitan was waiting near the entrance.

He wore his dark green suit, a white shirt, and a burgundy bow tie. His plum fedora was perched at its familiar angle.

Miriam smiled when she saw him.

“You look very handsome.”

He looked genuinely pleased.

“You look beautiful.”

She felt the old instinct to deflect the compliment, to say something about the dress or the fact that she had almost worn something else. Instead, she let herself smile.

“Thank you.”

Eitan offered her his arm.

“Shall we go and greet the people who have apparently been waiting all week for us to become engaged?”

“I’m fairly sure they were waiting for us to become engaged before we knew each other.”

“Then we have finally fulfilled a long-standing communal expectation.”

“Eitan!”

He grinned, and they went inside together.

The room erupted in greetings.

His mother hurried toward them, kissed Miriam on both cheeks, and immediately took her hand to admire the ring.

“Oh, it’s lovely. It really is lovely. Eitan showed me the design before he bought it, but I didn’t know exactly what he had chosen.”

“Did you know he was going to propose?”

His mother gave a little laugh.

“My dear, mothers know things.”

From behind her, Eitan’s father said, “Your mother knew he was going to propose because he asked her for advice about the ring.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Of course not.”

Miriam laughed, and Eitan leaned toward her.

“Welcome to my family.”

“I think I shall manage.”

“I am relieved.”

Soon she was being introduced to cousins, aunts, uncles, and people who seemed to be related to Eitan in ways that required a family tree to understand. Everyone congratulated her warmly. Several older women took her hands and told her how lovely she looked. One aunt declared that Eitan had finally made an excellent decision.

“Finally?” Eitan asked.

“You know what I mean.”

“I am not sure I do.”

“You have never made anything easy for your mother.”

“Choosing a wife seems to have been quite easy.”

His aunt looked at Miriam and smiled.

“Ah, but look how well he has chosen.”

Miriam blushed. Eitan, who had become rather skilled at noticing when she was overwhelmed, squeezed her hand gently.

They moved through the room together, greeting people and accepting congratulations. Miriam’s parents seemed delighted. Her father was drawn into a discussion with Eitan’s father about the history of the synagogue building, while her mother had already established a warm relationship with Eitan’s mother and was comparing recipes with her.

Then the music began.

The men gathered at one side of the room, and the women began to arrange themselves in a circle at the other. A few younger relatives cheered, and an elderly aunt announced that the dancing would not begin properly until everyone stopped pretending they were too dignified to dance.

Miriam laughed.

She was about to join the women when she glanced toward the entrance.

And froze.

Raven had arrived.

She was standing just inside the doorway, looking faintly uncertain about whether she had come to the right place.

She had made a genuine effort to dress for the occasion without disguising herself.

Her long black skirt was modest and flowing, and she wore a black blouse with long sleeves and a high neckline. Over it she had a fitted dark purple cardigan, fastened with small silver buttons. Her boots were polished, her black nails neat, and her vivid purple hair was mostly covered by a charcoal-grey scarf, though a few strands showed near her temples. Her silver jewellery was understated, and the little moth tattoo on her wrist was visible when she adjusted the strap of her bag.

She looked like Raven.

Not the version of Raven who had once dressed as Shira to make Miriam’s parents comfortable, but the person she had become: dark, colourful, slightly unconventional, and entirely herself.

Miriam felt an immediate rush of affection.

“Raven!”

Raven looked up, and her face brightened.

“Congratulations, fiancée.”

Miriam hurried across the room and hugged her.

“You came!”

“Of course I came. I helped the groom organise the proposal. I feel I am entitled to at least one piece of cake.”

“You’re entitled to all the cake you want.”

“Excellent. I shall hold you to that.”

Miriam stepped back, still holding Raven’s hands.

“You look lovely.”

Raven glanced down at her outfit.

“Thank you. I thought I’d aim for respectable enough that nobody faints, but still recognisably me.”

“You look exactly like yourself.”

“Good. That was the idea.”

Miriam’s smile softened.

“I am so glad you’re here.”

Raven’s expression became gentler.

“I’m glad I’m here, too.”

Then Miriam remembered something.

“Come. I want you to meet my parents properly.”

Raven hesitated.

“Your parents already know me.”

“They know Shira.”

“Oh.”

“They know you’re my friend. But I want them to know you as Raven, too.”

For a moment Raven looked uncertain. Miriam could see the old question behind her eyes: would the welcome she had received as Shira survive when she appeared as the person she actually was?

Miriam squeezed her hands.

“You don’t have to pretend to be anyone else here.”

Raven took a breath.

“All right.”

Together they crossed the room.

Miriam’s mother was standing beside the refreshments table, discussing the relative merits of two different kinds of cake with Eitan’s mother. She turned when Miriam approached.

“Miriam, sweetheart, have you eaten anything? You must have something before the dancing begins. And—”

She stopped.

Her eyes moved over Raven’s purple hair, the silver jewellery, the black clothes, and the familiar face beneath the changed appearance.

For a moment, she simply stared.

Then she said, very quietly, “Shira?”

Raven’s expression changed.

“Hello, Mrs. Cohen.”

Miriam’s mother looked from Raven to Miriam and back again.

“Shira?”

“I go by Raven now,” Raven said gently. “But yes. I used to be Shira.”

There was a silence.

Miriam felt her heart begin to pound. She had imagined this moment in several different ways, and in most of them her mother had been either upset or bewildered. She had not known what to expect when her parents saw Raven’s current appearance and learned that the girl they had welcomed into their home as a nice, observant young woman had not been living the life they had assumed.

Her mother looked at Raven for another moment.

Then she said, “Oh, my goodness.”

Raven gave a small, nervous smile.

“I know I look a little different.”

“A little different?” Miriam’s mother repeated, looking at the purple hair. “Well, yes. I would say so.”

Raven laughed despite herself.

Miriam’s mother set down the plate she was holding.

“And you are the friend Miriam has been talking about all this time?”

“Yes,” Raven said. “I am.”

“The one who went shopping with her?”

Raven blinked. “Yes.”

“The one who took her out for coffee when she was upset?”

Raven glanced at Miriam.

“Yes.”

“And the one who encouraged her to go out and enjoy herself?”

Raven looked increasingly uncertain.

“I suppose so.”

Miriam’s mother looked at her daughter.

“Miriam, what is going on?”

Miriam took a deep breath.

“Imma, I want to tell you something. And I want you to understand why Raven is here.”

Her mother became still.

Miriam turned toward Raven, then back to her mother.

“When I met Raven, I was having a terrible time. You know how I felt about the shidduchim. You know how many times I came home from dates feeling as though there was something wrong with me.”

Her mother’s expression softened.

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“I had begun to think that my life was just going to be waiting. Waiting for someone to choose me. Waiting to become a wife. Waiting to become the person I thought I was supposed to be.”

She swallowed.

“I wasn’t going out much. I wasn’t doing things I enjoyed. I was spending too much time alone in my room, thinking about all the reasons no one wanted me.”

Her mother looked stricken.

“Oh, Miriam.”

“I know you were trying to help. I know you wanted me to be happy. But I had become so convinced that I wasn’t good enough that I couldn’t even imagine anyone wanting to know me as I was.”

Raven stood quietly beside her, not interrupting.

“Then I met Raven,” Miriam continued. “She listened to me. She didn’t tell me I needed to lose weight or dress differently or become more interesting. She didn’t tell me to stop wanting marriage, either. She helped me understand that I could want a husband and still have a life now.”

Her mother’s eyes had begun to shine.

“She encouraged me to buy clothes I liked, to go places, to meet people, to stop treating every day as though it were just preparation for some future life. She reminded me that I was allowed to have opinions, and that when I went on a date, I was allowed to decide whether I liked the man, too.”

Miriam smiled at Eitan across the room. He was speaking to his father, but he looked over at her and gave her a little wave.

“And then I started going to the park again,” she said. “I was sitting there with Raven when Eitan came over and asked me out.”

Her mother glanced at Eitan, then back at her daughter.

Miriam took Raven’s hand.

“Without Raven, I would probably have been sitting in my bedroom that afternoon, feeling sorry for myself and wondering why no one ever wanted me. I wouldn’t have been in the park. I wouldn’t have been out in the world. Eitan might never have noticed me.”

Her voice trembled, but she continued.

“And even if he had, I don’t think I would have had the confidence to talk to him as myself. I might have spent the whole date trying to prove that I was good enough for him instead of finding out whether we were good for each other.”

She looked directly at her mother.

“Raven helped me become the person Eitan got to know. Not a different person. The person I already was, but whom I had stopped letting anyone see.”

Her mother was crying now.

Miriam squeezed Raven’s hand.

“So when I say yes to Eitan, I am saying yes to him. But I also want you to understand that Raven helped make this possible. She was there when I was unhappy and lonely. She helped me find my way back into my own life. And I want her here tonight because she matters to me.”

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Raven looked down at their joined hands. Her usual quick humour seemed to have deserted her.

Miriam’s mother stared at the two young women.

Then she stepped forward.

Raven instinctively straightened, perhaps expecting another question, perhaps preparing herself for the possibility that the conversation would become difficult.

Instead, Miriam’s mother opened her arms.

“Come here,” she said.

Raven blinked.

“Mrs. Cohen?”

“Come here, Shira—Raven. Whatever you want me to call you. Come here.”

Raven stepped into her embrace.

Miriam’s mother hugged her tightly.

“Oh, my dear girl,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Raven went very still.

“Thank you for looking after my daughter when she was hurting. Thank you for being her friend. I wish I had understood how unhappy she was. I wish I had known what she needed.”

“It’s not your fault,” Raven said softly.

“Perhaps not. But I am grateful you were there.”

She held Raven for another moment before drawing back and taking her face gently between her hands.

“You know, I thought you were a very lovely girl when you came to our home as Shira.”

Raven gave a nervous laugh.

“I remember.”

“And now I see you are still the same lovely girl, even if you have changed your clothes rather dramatically.”

Miriam’s mother glanced at the purple hair.

“I am not sure I understand the colour.”

“That’s all right,” Raven said.

“But I don’t need to understand everything about you to be grateful for what you have done.”

Raven’s eyes were suddenly bright.

For once, she did not have a clever answer.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Miriam’s mother hugged her again.

Then she stepped back, took Raven’s hand, and looked toward the women gathering for the dancing.

“Come. You must join us.”

Raven blinked. “What?”

“The dancing. We are about to begin.”

“Oh, I don’t know if—”

“Of course you do. You are Miriam’s friend, and you are here to celebrate her engagement. You must dance.”

“Mrs. Cohen, I don’t know the steps.”

“Neither do half the women in this room. We manage.”

Miriam burst out laughing.

Her mother turned to her.

“And you, Miriam. Stop standing here looking as though you have discovered a new species of bird. Bring your friend.”

Then, with the air of a woman who had settled a difficult matter, she took Raven’s arm and led her toward the women’s circle.

Raven found herself standing between Miriam’s mother and one of Eitan’s aunts, who immediately began explaining the steps to a traditional Israeli wedding dance.

“I should warn you,” Raven said, “I have very little experience with this.”

“Neither did I when I was your age,” the aunt replied. “You learn by doing.”

“That’s generally how dancing works,” Miriam’s mother added.

The music began.

The women clapped, the circle started moving, and Miriam found herself laughing as Raven tried to follow the steps while keeping her skirt from tangling around her boots. Within a few minutes, Tzipora had joined them, and the circle widened to include cousins, sisters-in-law, neighbours, and women Miriam barely knew.

Raven was not an elegant dancer.

She was, however, enthusiastic.

When the music changed, she made an exaggerated attempt at a turn, nearly collided with Miriam, and caught her just in time.

“I have been betrayed by my own feet,” she announced.

Miriam laughed so hard she could barely keep moving.

“Your feet are doing their best!”

“They should try harder.”

Miriam’s mother was laughing, too.

She reached for Raven’s hand and pulled her back into the circle.

“Come on, Shira—Raven. Keep moving!”

Raven looked at her in surprise.

Her mother had used the old name and the new name together, without anger or accusation, as though she were acknowledging both the girl she had once been and the woman she was now.

It was a small thing.

But Raven felt it.

She looked at Miriam, who was smiling at her with tears still shining in her eyes, and understood that this was not merely a polite invitation to participate in a family celebration.

She was being welcomed.

Not as a project, or a cautionary example, or the old friend who had once worn a scarf to make herself more acceptable.

As herself.

The music grew louder. The women clapped in rhythm. Someone began singing, and soon several others joined in.

Miriam’s mother danced beside Raven, holding her hand and laughing whenever they missed a step.

Across the room, Eitan had noticed the commotion. He watched Miriam dancing with her mother and Raven, and his expression softened.

His father followed his gaze.

“Everything all right?”

Eitan smiled.

“Yes.”

“Your mother seems to have adopted Miriam’s friend.”

“She has.”

“Do you think she knows the friend is an atheist?”

“Yes.”

His father looked at him.

“And?”

“And I think she has decided that anyone who helped Miriam find happiness deserves a dance.”

His father watched the women for another moment.

Then he nodded.

“Your mother has always been sensible in unexpected ways.”

Eitan laughed.

“Don’t tell her you said that. She’ll demand that you put it in writing.”

Later, when the music paused and the women began returning to their seats, Miriam found Raven beside the refreshments table, accepting a plate of cake from her mother.

“You’re being very well looked after,” Miriam said.

Raven glanced at the plate.

“Your mother has fed me twice and threatened to feed me a third time.”

“That’s how you know she likes you.”

“She has also asked whether I prefer chocolate or fruit cake.”

“That’s practically a declaration of love.”

Raven smiled.

Then she looked toward Miriam’s mother, who was speaking with Eitan’s mother and occasionally glancing over at them.

“Your mother is lovely,” Raven said quietly.

Miriam followed her gaze.

“She really is.”

“I was nervous about coming.”

“I know.”

“I thought she might be upset. Or disappointed. Or that she would look at me and see everything she thought was wrong with me.”

Miriam’s heart ached.

“I’m sorry you had to worry about that.”

Raven shook her head.

“It’s all right. I wanted to be here. I wanted to see you get engaged. I wanted to be part of it.”

She looked down at her plate.

“And I wanted your parents to know that I love you. Even if I don’t believe what they believe. Even if I look like this.”

Miriam took her hand.

“They know now.”

Raven smiled.

“Yes. They do.”

Across the room, Eitan’s mother came over with Miriam’s mother. They had apparently reached an agreement about something, because both looked rather pleased with themselves.

“Miriam,” Eitan’s mother said, “your mother tells me that Raven helped Eitan arrange the proposal.”

Raven glanced at Miriam.

“I’m afraid I did.”

“Well, then, we owe you our thanks. Eitan was very nervous, and I don’t think he would have managed such a lovely surprise without some help.”

“He was actually quite well organised,” Raven said. “He just needed someone to stop him from writing a speech that sounded like a legal document.”

Miriam’s mother burst out laughing.

Eitan, who had approached just in time to hear this, looked wounded.

“It was not a legal document.”

“It began with ‘Having carefully considered the matter,’” Raven said.

Miriam stared at him.

“You didn’t!”

“I was trying to express the seriousness of my intentions.”

“You were proposing marriage, not applying for a building permit!”

His father, standing behind him, began to laugh so hard that he had to put a hand on the table.

Eitan sighed.

“I see that my private correspondence has been discussed without my consent.”

“Your private correspondence was a draft on a piece of paper,” Raven replied. “And it was terrible.”

Miriam leaned against Eitan, laughing.

He looked down at her, his expression turning fond.

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“I really am.”

“Then I suppose it was worth it.”

He took her hand and kissed her fingers lightly, just above the ring.

For a moment, the teasing around them faded.

Miriam looked at him, then at Raven, then at her mother.

Her life seemed to be gathered around her in one noisy, imperfect, affectionate room: two families who were learning to become one, a man she loved, and a friend who had helped her find the courage to believe that love was possible without making it the sole measure of her worth.

She had once thought she needed to become someone else before anyone could choose her.

Now she was surrounded by people who loved her as herself.

And Raven—purple hair, black clothes, silver jewellery, and all—was dancing with her mother.

Miriam squeezed Eitan’s hand.

“I am so happy,” she whispered.

He smiled.

“So am I.”

Then his mother called from the other side of the room, “Miriam! Raven! Come, there is more dancing!”

Raven groaned theatrically.

“I’m going to need better shoes.”

Miriam laughed and pulled her toward the circle.

“Come on. You’re family tonight.”

Raven glanced at her, and her expression softened.

“Tonight?” she asked.

Miriam squeezed her hand.

“Tonight. And tomorrow. And whenever you want to be.”

For once, Raven did not make a joke.

She only smiled, and let Miriam lead her back into the dancing.

The first thing Miriam discovered about wedding preparations was that everyone had an opinion.

The second was that everyone had an opinion about things she had not known existed.

“Do you want the invitations in cream or ivory?” her mother asked over breakfast one Sunday morning.

Miriam looked at the two samples.

“They look identical.”

“They are not identical.”

“Of course not.”

“One is cream. The other is ivory.”

“Imma, I understand the names. I am struggling with the distinction.”

Her mother sighed with the patience of a woman who had already raised three children and was now being asked to organize a wedding with a daughter who had apparently developed a philosophical objection to stationery.

“Your future mother-in-law thinks ivory is more elegant.”

“Then ivory.”

“You don’t have to agree with her just because she said it.”

“I don’t. I agree with her because I can’t tell them apart.”

Her mother regarded her for a moment, then began laughing.

It was, Miriam thought, a promising start to married life. She had not yet learned the difference between cream and ivory, and already she was negotiating between two families.

By the following week, there were spreadsheets. There were lists of relatives whose names Miriam could not remember. There were discussions about the hall, the caterer, the photographer, the flowers, the invitations, the music, the seating arrangements, and whether the wedding cake should be tall enough to look impressive in photographs or modest enough not to suggest that anyone was trying to imitate a non-Jewish wedding.

There were also opinions about Eitan’s suit.

“I am wearing the green one,” he announced.

His mother looked at him. “The green one?”

“The green one.”

“For your wedding?”

“That’s the general idea.”

“Wouldn’t you like something new?”

“I would like to wear something I actually like.”

His father, sitting at the table with a book open beside his tea, did not look up.

“Let him wear the green suit. It has survived every family occasion so far. It may as well be present at the most important one.”

His mother gave him a look.

“Fine,” she said. “But I am not promising not to cry when I see you in it.”

“I would be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“And the hat?”

“The hat.”

“The plum one?”

“The plum one.”

His father turned a page. “I think we’ve established that the hat is marrying into the family.”

When Miriam heard this account, she laughed so hard that she nearly dropped her phone.

Then she and Eitan sat down together in a café and began to make their own list.

Not the list of what had to be arranged. That list was already growing at a rate that suggested the wedding might require its own administrative department.

This was a different list.

Things we get to decide ourselves.

Eitan wrote the heading in his neat handwriting.

Miriam looked at it.

“That’s rather a lot of responsibility.”

“It’s only a list.”

“That’s how they get you.”

He smiled and passed her the pen.

They began with the ceremony.

They would, of course, have a traditional Orthodox wedding, with the chuppah, the blessings, the witnesses, the ring, the ketubah, and everything that mattered to them religiously. Neither wanted to invent a different Judaism for the occasion. But they wanted to be thoughtful about the details within that tradition.

They chose a chuppah with simple wooden poles and fabric in warm colours, rather than a huge arrangement of flowers that would cost as much as a small apartment. They would decorate it with yellow and purple flowers, the colours from Eitan’s proposal, which Miriam still thought looked like they were having a cheerful argument.

They decided to have the chuppah outdoors, if the weather allowed, with a sensible indoor alternative in case Jerusalem decided to express its opinions about the matter.

They would ask the rabbi to explain the meaning of the ceremony briefly before it began, so that their guests could listen with understanding rather than simply wait for the photographs.

They would choose music that meant something to them. Traditional Jewish melodies, certainly, but also tunes that reminded them of particular moments: a melody Eitan’s father sang at the Shabbat table, one Miriam remembered from childhood, and one that had played in the café when they had stayed talking until closing time.

“I don’t want the wedding to be a performance,” Miriam said one evening, as they reviewed their notes.

“Neither do I.”

“I want to remember it.”

“Then we should probably arrange for someone to stop your aunt from giving a speech about the time you were three and put a raisin in your nose.”

Miriam stared at him.

“How do you know about that?”

“Your mother told mine.”

“I trusted our mothers.”

“That was your first mistake.”

She threw a napkin at him.

They decided that their invitations would include a small illustration of the old Jerusalem stone wall beside which Eitan had proposed. They would put a little card at each table explaining the story behind the yellow and purple flowers. They would arrange for a quiet room at the hall where elderly relatives, tired children, and anyone overwhelmed by the noise could sit comfortably.

Miriam insisted on that last one.

“Weddings can be exhausting,” she said. “I don’t want people to feel that they have to be cheerful and dancing every minute to prove they love us.”

Eitan added it to the list.

They would also leave time in the schedule to eat.

“Apparently,” he said, “this is a radical concept. I’ve attended weddings where the dancing begins before anyone has managed to find the food.”

“We are not having a wedding where people are hungry.”

“Agreed. We shall be remembered for our moral seriousness and adequate catering.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I’m agreeing with you in a tone that makes it sound like a joke.”

“That’s a very dangerous habit in a husband.”

“I’ll try to moderate it.”

She looked at him, at the green suit he had worn to meet her parents, at the man who had asked her to marry him without making her feel that she had passed an examination.

There were so many things she was looking forward to. The wedding itself, certainly. The home they would build, the Shabbat meals, the children they hoped to have, the arguments over books and furniture and what counted as a reasonable number of houseplants.

But she was also looking forward to the simple fact that she could say what she wanted, and he would listen.

Not always agree. Not always immediately understand.

Listen.

It was a very good thing to discover before getting married.

Then Raven arrived with an idea.

Which, in Miriam’s experience, was rarely a quiet event.

Raven came to Miriam’s parents’ apartment one Thursday evening, dressed in her usual black, with her purple hair loose around her shoulders and a paper bag of biscuits under one arm.

Miriam’s mother had long since stopped asking whether Raven had always intended to have purple hair. She had moved on to asking whether it needed special shampoo, which Raven considered progress.

They sat around the kitchen table drinking tea. Miriam’s mother was preparing vegetables for the next day’s cooking, and Eitan had joined them after work, carrying a folder of wedding quotations.

Raven waited until the conversation had turned to the photographer.

“So,” she said, “I have a proposal.”

Eitan glanced up.

“Should I be worried?”

“Probably.”

Miriam put down her cup. “Go on.”

Raven folded her hands on the table. For once, she seemed a little nervous.

“You know how witches don’t really believe in weddings.”

Miriam’s mother paused with a carrot in her hand.

Raven looked at her.

“I mean, we don’t have a single shared doctrine, obviously. Some of us believe in magic, some don’t. Some are pagan, some are more into folklore and ritual, and some of us are basically atheists who like candles and have strong opinions about moon imagery.”

“You,” said Eitan, “being in the last category.”

“I’m a complex woman.”

“You own seven black cardigans.”

“They serve different emotional purposes.”

Miriam laughed. Raven smiled, then returned to her point.

“But we do believe in love. Or, at least, most of us think love is worth celebrating. And I was thinking about your wedding.”

Miriam felt a small, anticipatory flutter.

“What were you thinking?”

“A love ritual.”

Eitan’s pen stopped moving.

Raven continued quickly.

“Not a wedding. Not a marriage ceremony. Nothing that pretends to replace your chuppah or your blessings or anything Jewish. Just something my friends and I could do to celebrate the two of you. A little ritual about love, commitment, kindness, and the life you’re about to build.”

There was silence.

From the kitchen came the soft sound of Miriam’s mother setting down the carrot.

Eitan looked at Raven with the expression of a man who had discovered an unexpected clause in a contract.

“A witches’ ritual,” he said carefully.

“Yes.”

“Immediately after our wedding feast?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Before we go home?”

“Unless you’d prefer to schedule it for Tuesday.”

Miriam covered her mouth.

Eitan gave Raven a long look. “I appreciate the thought. Truly. But I’m not sure I can participate in a religious ritual that isn’t part of Judaism.”

“That’s fair,” Raven said at once. “I wouldn’t ask you to do something that violated your beliefs.”

“I don’t want to disrespect your friends,” he added. “And I don’t think they’re bad people. But if the ritual involves invoking other powers, or making a vow, or treating magic as real, then I would have concerns.”

Raven nodded.

“Those are reasonable concerns. That’s why I wanted to talk to you before planning anything.”

Miriam watched them both. She was pleased that neither was pretending the question was trivial. She was also painfully aware that this was exactly the kind of moment when she might once have sat quietly, hoping the people she loved would work everything out without her having to risk saying the wrong thing.

But she was not that Miriam any longer.

“Eitan,” she said, “what if we found out exactly what Raven means before deciding?”

He looked at her. “Of course.”

“And Raven, what if we made it clear that we won’t participate in anything that conflicts with halakha?”

“Absolutely.”

“And what if we ask the rabbi?”

Eitan’s shoulders relaxed a little.

“That seems sensible.”

Raven leaned back. “Excellent. I was hoping we could have a discussion rather than a theological duel. I didn’t bring enough biscuits for a duel.”

Miriam’s mother, who had resumed cutting vegetables, said, “I don’t know what a witches’ love ritual is, but I know what it is to wish happiness for a young couple.”

Raven looked at her, touched.

“That’s actually most of what I had in mind.”

They met again two evenings later, after Eitan had spoken to the rabbi who would conduct the wedding.

The rabbi, it turned out, had not fainted, called for reinforcements, or ordered the couple to abandon the idea of marriage.

He had asked what the ritual involved.

So Raven explained it to Miriam and Eitan in detail.

There would be no invocation of deities, no appeal to spirits, no spells intended to control another person, no claim that the ritual possessed supernatural power. Raven’s coven would gather in a private garden belonging to one of the members. They would light a few candles, read short reflections about love and commitment, and offer wishes for the couple’s future.

There would be flowers, tea, and probably too many biscuits.

“We’re very committed to the biscuits,” Raven explained.

“And what would we actually be asked to do?” Eitan asked.

“Nothing you don’t want to do. You could sit and listen. You could speak if you wanted. You could even leave after five minutes and tell everyone that the architecture was terrible.”

“I would never say that without examining the architecture.”

“See? This is why Miriam is marrying you.”

Miriam nudged him with her foot beneath the table.

Raven’s tone softened.

“I don’t want you to pretend to believe in anything you don’t believe in. I don’t believe in supernatural magic myself. For me, the ritual is a way of giving shape to something that matters. We gather, we say what we hope for, we pay attention. It doesn’t have to be supernatural to be meaningful.”

Eitan considered this.

“In Judaism,” he said, “we also give meaning to actions through ritual. But we don’t treat every ritual as interchangeable. The source and content matter.”

“I know,” Raven said. “That’s why I’m not asking you to call it a Jewish ceremony. It’s a gift from my friends, in their own language.”

Miriam looked at him.

“I think I would like to do it,” she said. “Not because I think it will make our marriage work. Not because I think there’s a power that can guarantee we’ll be happy. But because Raven has been part of the story of how I got here. And because I’d like the people who helped me become myself to be able to celebrate the life I’m choosing.”

She paused, then added, “I don’t want to spend my wedding day dividing everyone into people whose beliefs I share and people whose beliefs I don’t. I want to celebrate the people who love us, as long as we can do that honestly.”

Eitan was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “I understand that.”

“Do you think it’s forbidden?”

“I think we should take the rabbi’s answer seriously. He said that, as described, a gathering of friends offering good wishes and using symbolic gestures, without religious invocation or worship, does not inherently violate halakha. But he also said that if the actual ritual differs from what we’ve discussed, we need to reassess it. And he advised us not to participate in anything that would amount to adopting another religion’s worship.”

Raven nodded solemnly.

“Fair. If anyone starts invoking a moon goddess, I’ll ask them to save it for another evening.”

“And no vows,” Eitan added. “Our commitments belong to us, and we will make them in the proper way.”

“Agreed.”

“And I would prefer not to pretend that I believe in magic.”

“I would be extremely disappointed if you did,” Raven said. “You’ve spent months explaining why you think intention is important, but consequences matter too. I can’t imagine you making a supernatural claim without demanding three footnotes.”

“Four, if the claim is extraordinary.”

“See? I rest my case.”

Miriam was grinning.

“So you’ll come?” she asked him.

Eitan looked at her.

He was still uncertain. She could see that. This was not his tradition, and he did not want to treat it as a harmless novelty merely because Raven was kind or because Miriam wanted it. She respected that about him.

“I’ll come,” he said at last. “Provided we all understand what we’re doing and what we’re not doing.”

Miriam reached for his hand.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t seen the garden. If the architecture is terrible, I reserve the right to comment.”

Raven pointed at him. “You may comment on the architecture. You may not review the biscuits.”

“Then I cannot promise anything.”

The preparations for the ritual began in earnest.

Raven insisted that it should happen after the wedding feast, as she had originally proposed. The guests would have eaten, danced, blessed the couple, and gone home. Miriam and Eitan would change into comfortable clothes, if they wanted, and join Raven and a small group of her closest friends in the garden.

“It won’t be a second wedding,” Raven explained. “It won’t be a secret marriage. It won’t be a magical insurance policy. It’s just a gathering of people who want good things for you.”

“How many people?” Miriam asked.

“Eight, perhaps ten. It’s not a festival.”

“Will they all be dressed in black?”

“Most likely.”

“Will there be a pentagram?”

“Probably a decorative one somewhere. But nothing you’re required to use, touch, or endorse. If you would rather not have one visible, I’ll explain that to them.”

Miriam thought about it. “I don’t mind seeing one. I just don’t want to participate in worship or anything that conflicts with my faith.”

“Then that’s what we’ll arrange.”

Eitan, who had been looking at Raven’s notes, asked, “What are the words that will be read?”

Raven showed him.

They were simple reflections, some written by members of the coven and some drawn from poems and traditional sayings about love. They spoke of patience, kindness, honesty, freedom, and the understanding that loving someone meant allowing them to remain a person in their own right.

One passage read:

May you be a shelter to one another, but never a cage. May you make room for each other’s questions, and may neither of you have to become smaller in order to be loved.

Miriam read it twice.

“That one,” she said quietly.

Raven looked at her. “I thought you might like it.”

Eitan read it too. His expression changed, becoming thoughtful.

“I like it,” he said. “I think it belongs in the evening.”

They agreed that the ritual would not include promises or declarations from the couple. Those belonged to their marriage and to the Jewish ceremony. Instead, the friends would speak wishes for their life together. There would be no attempt to predict their future or claim that love alone would solve every difficulty.

“Because it won’t,” Raven said. “Sometimes love is making tea when the other person has a headache. Sometimes it’s apologizing. Sometimes it’s going to work when you’d rather stay in bed. Sometimes it’s saying, ‘I think you’re wrong, and I love you anyway.’”

“Sometimes,” Eitan observed, “it’s admitting that the other person is right.”

Raven stared at him.

“Let’s not get carried away.”

Miriam laughed, and Eitan smiled.

For the first time, he seemed genuinely curious about the gathering. He asked whether each person would speak, whether there would be music, and whether the ritual had a particular order. Raven answered patiently, explaining that there was no single authoritative liturgy and that the coven had agreed on this particular shape for the occasion.

“You know,” he said, “I think I understand it better now.”

“Good,” Raven replied. “Because I was beginning to worry you’d arrive with a clipboard and ask everyone to sign a declaration of theological neutrality.”

“I would never use a clipboard for that.”

“A notebook, then?”

“Possibly.”

She shook her head.

“I have to tell you, Miriam, your future husband is the only man I know who could make a witch’s ritual feel like a planning meeting for a municipal building.”

“He’s very thorough,” Miriam said fondly.

“He is. And I like him. Which is inconvenient, because I had prepared a whole list of reasons to dislike any man who married my best friend.”

“Did the list include the hat?”

“The hat had its own section.”

Eitan adjusted his plum fedora.

“I shall endeavor to live up to the criticism.”

A few days later, Miriam and Raven met to choose flowers for the garden.

They chose yellow and purple again.

“Obviously,” Raven said. “We can’t have a wedding in which the flowers are having a cheerful argument and then a ritual in which they suddenly agree about everything.”

Miriam held a small bunch of purple flowers against the yellow ones.

“Do you think it’s strange?” she asked.

“What?”

“That I’m Orthodox, and you’re an atheist, and you’re helping me with my wedding, and we’re planning this ritual together?”

Raven considered the question.

“I think it’s unusual. I think people will have opinions. I think some of my friends will find it sweet, and some people in your community might not understand it. I think there are real differences between what we believe, and I don’t want to pretend those differences don’t matter.”

Miriam waited.

“But I don’t think friendship requires us to pretend to be the same,” Raven continued. “You don’t have to become an atheist to love me. I don’t have to become religious to love you. We just have to be honest about what we believe and careful about what we ask of each other.”

Miriam looked down at the flowers.

“For a long time, I thought I had to become the person someone would want to marry. I thought I had to be thinner, prettier, more interesting, less awkward. I thought I had to make myself into a suitable wife before I was allowed to enjoy my life.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m marrying a man who likes me because I’m me. And I have a friend who helped me understand that I was allowed to be me even before he came along.”

Raven’s expression softened.

“You were always allowed.”

“I know. I just didn’t know it.”

Raven reached out and squeezed her hand.

“Then I suppose that’s what we’re celebrating.”

Miriam smiled. “Not magic?”

“Absolutely not. Magic would be a much easier explanation, but then we’d have to explain why it took four years, three spreadsheets, and an argument about ivory stationery to get you here.”

“Cream and ivory are different.”

“Traitor.”

They both laughed.

That evening, Eitan joined them to look at the final plan.

He had one remaining concern.

“Will your friends understand that this is not a religious commitment on our part?” he asked Raven.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll explain it clearly beforehand. They won’t expect you to believe what they believe. And if anyone has a problem with that, they don’t have to attend.”

“Good.”

“And you understand that this is not a Jewish ceremony, and that it doesn’t replace anything in our wedding?”

“I do.”

“And that we can leave if either of us becomes uncomfortable?”

“Of course.”

Raven looked between them.

“Excellent. Then we have a plan.”

She began gathering the papers, but Miriam stopped her.

“Wait. There’s something I want to say.”

Raven sat down again. Eitan turned toward his fiancée.

Miriam took a breath.

“I want you there because you were there at the beginning. Before Eitan, before the dates, before I could imagine any of this. You sat with me when I thought my life was over because nobody wanted to marry me. You didn’t promise me that I’d find someone. You didn’t tell me to be patient and everything would work out. You helped me understand that my life was already happening.”

Her voice wavered slightly, but she continued.

“I don’t think our marriage will be perfect. I don’t think it will be protected from sadness or arguments or disappointment because we’ve had a beautiful wedding. I don’t think a ritual can guarantee anything. But I want to begin our marriage surrounded by people who care about us, and I want you to be one of them.”

Raven looked down at her hands.

For once, she had no joke ready.

“I’m going to ruin my eyeliner,” she muttered.

“You can wear waterproof mascara,” Eitan offered.

Raven looked up at him in disbelief.

“Did you just give me practical advice about goth makeup?”

“I have been taking notes.”

Miriam burst out laughing. Raven tried to maintain a stern expression and failed.

Then Raven reached across the table and took Miriam’s hand.

“I’ll be there,” she said. “And I’ll bring the biscuits.”

Eitan nodded. “I look forward to evaluating them.”

“You are not invited to evaluate the biscuits.”

“I fear that clause may be unenforceable.”

Miriam leaned back in her chair, laughing between them.

The wedding preparations continued. There would still be invitations, relatives, arguments about seating, a rabbi to coordinate with, and a hall that had to be decorated. There would be the chuppah, the blessings, the ring, and the moment when Miriam would walk toward Eitan and take his hand.

And afterward, when the feast was over and the music had faded, there would be a small garden, yellow and purple flowers, a circle of friends, candles glowing in the evening air, and a handful of people wishing them well.

Miriam did not imagine that the ritual would make her marriage easier.

She hoped they would make it easier for each other.

And that, she thought, was a perfectly good thing to celebrate.

The wedding was four days away when Miriam’s mother announced that they needed to discuss the mikveh.

Miriam had been expecting the conversation. She had grown up knowing that a bride went to the mikveh before her wedding, and she had learned the relevant halakhot. She knew about removing nail polish, washing her hair, brushing her teeth, and checking carefully that nothing would form a barrier between her body and the water.

She knew the rules.

What she did not know was how she would feel.

Her mother found her sitting at the kitchen table with the wedding schedule open in front of her, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and three separate lists of things she was supposed to remember.

“Close the notebook,” her mother said.

“I can’t. I haven’t confirmed the flowers.”

“The flowers are confirmed.”

“I haven’t confirmed that they’re confirmed.”

“Miriam.”

Miriam closed the notebook.

Her mother sat beside her and took her hand.

“We’re going to the mikveh on Wednesday evening. I’ve spoken to the attendant, and she’s expecting you. I’ll go with you, and so will Eitan’s mother.”

Miriam nodded.

“And Raven,” her mother added.

Miriam blinked.

“Raven?”

“Yes. You said you wanted her there.”

“I did. I just wasn’t sure you’d be comfortable with it.”

Her mother looked faintly offended.

“Why wouldn’t I be comfortable with your friend accompanying you?”

Miriam thought about purple hair, silver piercings, black clothes, and a woman who believed in neither God nor the supernatural.

“I don’t know. I thought you might feel that the mikveh was too religious a thing to share with her.”

Her mother’s expression softened.

“The mikveh is a religious thing. It is also an important moment in your life. Raven is your friend. She has been good to you. I don’t see why I should pretend that part of your life doesn’t exist when you are doing something important in another part of it.”

Miriam stared at her mother.

“You’ve changed.”

“Have I?”

“A little.”

Her mother smiled.

“Perhaps I’ve learned that I don’t need to understand every person you love in order to welcome them into your life.”

Miriam felt a lump rise in her throat.

“Imma.”

“Don’t start crying. You’ll have me crying, and then we’ll both be useless, and your father will come in and ask whether someone has died.”

That made Miriam laugh, which was probably the intention.

Her mother squeezed her hand.

“There’s one other thing I want you to know. You don’t have to be frightened of not knowing everything. The attendant will guide you. You can ask questions. You can take your time. And if you feel overwhelmed, you can tell us.”

Miriam nodded again.

“Thank you.”

“Now,” her mother said, rising, “please confirm the flowers.”

On Wednesday afternoon, Raven arrived at Miriam’s parents’ apartment carrying a small bag.

Miriam eyed it suspiciously.

“What have you brought?”

“Emergency supplies.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“Emotional, primarily. Possibly biscuit-related.”

She opened the bag. Inside were tissues, a small bottle of water, a packet of mints, and a wrapped chocolate bar.

Miriam laughed.

“You’ve packed for a siege.”

“I’ve known you for long enough to understand that when you’re nervous, you forget that humans require food and water.”

“I don’t forget.”

“You once spent six hours assembling a bookshelf and then wondered why you had a headache.”

“The instructions were confusing.”

“The instructions were one page.”

“They were a badly designed page.”

Eitan’s mother arrived a few minutes later, carrying a container of homemade biscuits and a large handbag that appeared capable of containing an entire kitchen.

She greeted Miriam warmly and then hugged Raven.

“How are you, dear?”

“Good, thank you. I’ve brought emergency supplies.”

“So have I,” Eitan’s mother said, indicating the biscuits.

Raven looked at her with admiration.

“I’m beginning to understand why Eitan is so thorough. He’s inherited it.”

“His father is worse,” his mother said. “He once made a list of things to take on a day trip, then made a second list to check the first list.”

“Did it work?” Raven asked.

“Of course. We didn’t forget anything.”

Miriam laughed, and the last of the tension in the room loosened a little.

Eitan’s mother turned to her.

“Are you ready?”

Miriam considered lying.

“No,” she said honestly.

The older woman nodded as if this were a perfectly sensible answer.

“Neither was I, the first time. I was nervous, and I thought I ought to know exactly what I was doing. I remember worrying about every little detail. But the attendant was kind, and she explained everything. You don’t have to make this into an examination.”

Miriam glanced at Raven.

“Apparently, my entire life has been an examination.”

“Not anymore,” Raven said.

Eitan’s mother looked from one young woman to the other. She did not ask what they meant. Instead, she took Miriam’s other hand.

“Today isn’t about proving that you’re a good bride. You already are the woman Eitan wants to marry. This is a mitzvah you are preparing to do, and a moment in your life that deserves care. That’s enough.”

Miriam swallowed.

“Thank you.”

“Now,” said Eitan’s mother, “let’s go before I eat all the biscuits myself.”

The mikveh was quiet when they arrived.

It was a familiar building in Jerusalem, discreet from the street, with a small reception area and a corridor leading to the preparation rooms. Miriam had been there before, but only to accompany someone else briefly years ago. She had never imagined that her own visit would feel quite so momentous.

The attendant greeted them warmly. She was a middle-aged woman with a calm voice and the unhurried manner of someone who had guided many nervous brides through their first visit.

“Miriam? Mazal tov. We’re very happy to have you here.”

“Thank you,” Miriam replied, a little too softly.

The attendant explained how the evening would proceed. Miriam would have a private room in which to prepare. She could ask for help with anything she was unsure about, and the attendant would check that her preparations were complete before the immersion. Her mother and Eitan’s mother could remain with her until she was ready, while Raven could wait with them in the adjoining sitting area.

“If you have any questions, ask,” the attendant said. “If you need another few minutes, take them. There is no prize for being the fastest bride in Jerusalem.”

Raven murmured, “I would like to see the official certificate for that competition.”

The attendant smiled.

“I assure you, we don’t award one.”

“Shame. Miriam would have put it on her wedding spreadsheet.”

“I would not,” Miriam protested.

“You absolutely would,” said her mother.

They all laughed, including the attendant.

Then she showed Miriam to the preparation room.

It was clean and warm, with a comfortable chair, a mirror, a sink, towels, and everything she needed. There was a small checklist on the counter, outlining the preparations she had already learned about: bathing, washing and combing her hair, cleaning her teeth, removing any nail polish, and checking for anything that might prevent the water from reaching her body.

Miriam looked at the list.

“I know all of this,” she said.

“Of course you do,” her mother replied.

“But now I’m worried I’ll forget something.”

“That is why the attendant is here,” said Eitan’s mother.

“And why I brought the chocolate,” Raven added from the doorway. “For after. Unless chocolate is somehow forbidden by the mikveh authorities.”

“Not that I’m aware of,” the attendant said, with a perfectly straight face.

“Excellent. I like a religious institution that has a sensible approach to chocolate.”

Miriam laughed, but as the others began to help her organize what she needed, she felt the nervousness returning.

Her mother noticed.

“Would you like us to stay while you prepare?”

“Yes. Please.”

So they stayed.

There was something comforting about the ordinary tasks. Miriam put her clothes aside carefully. She removed her jewellery, setting each piece in a small dish. She washed her hands, then began her preparations, following the guidance she had been taught. Her mother reminded her gently about a detail she had overlooked, and Eitan’s mother helped her check that she had everything she needed.

Neither woman rushed her.

Raven sat on the chair by the wall, keeping her hands folded in her lap. For once, she did not fill the silence with jokes.

Miriam caught her eye in the mirror.

“You’re very quiet.”

“I’m being respectful.”

“That’s unusual.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I’ll lose my reputation.”

Miriam smiled.

Raven’s face softened.

“I’m glad you asked me to come.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“I know I don’t share your beliefs,” Raven said. “I know this means something different to you than it would to me. But I understand that it’s important. And I wanted to be here for you.”

Miriam looked at her reflection.

There had been a time when she would have been embarrassed to bring Raven anywhere near this part of her life. She would have worried that the differences between them were too large, that her friend would feel out of place, or that someone would judge her for being close to a woman who had left Orthodox Judaism behind.

Now she found that she did not want to hide either of them.

She was an Orthodox Jewish woman about to immerse in a mikveh before her wedding. Raven was an atheist who wore black and had purple hair. They did not need to pretend those facts were interchangeable. They only needed to let each other be present.

“Thank you,” Miriam said quietly.

Raven nodded, her eyes bright.

“Anytime.”

As Miriam finished washing and checking her hair, the attendant returned to see whether she needed anything.

“Take your time,” she reminded her. “When you’re ready, I’ll check that everything is prepared, and then I’ll guide you through the immersion.”

Miriam nodded.

She had imagined this evening many times over the years. In those imagined scenes, she had always been older, perhaps more confident, perhaps surrounded by the kind of happiness she had thought she could only earn by finally becoming someone’s bride.

But she was not the woman she had once imagined.

She was still nervous. She still wanted to be a good wife. She still cared deeply about her faith and the home she and Eitan hoped to build. She still had questions about what marriage would be like, and she knew that neither the wedding nor the mikveh could answer them all.

But she no longer felt that she was standing outside life, waiting for someone to open the door.

Her life was already happening.

Her mother came to stand beside her and brushed a loose strand of hair back from her face, an old gesture from childhood.

“You look beautiful,” she said.

Miriam smiled faintly. “I don’t think that’s the point tonight.”

“No,” her mother agreed. “But you’re allowed to be beautiful while doing something important.”

Eitan’s mother took her hand.

“Eitan is very fortunate.”

Miriam felt herself blush.

“He’s the one wearing the plum hat.”

“Indeed,” said Eitan’s mother. “We all have our crosses to bear.”

Raven made a small choking sound.

“I’m sorry,” Eitan’s mother said, though she was clearly trying not to laugh. “Perhaps that isn’t the appropriate expression for the occasion.”

“It is absolutely appropriate,” Raven assured her. “And I shall treasure it forever.”

The attendant appeared at the door.

“Miriam? Are you ready?”

Miriam looked at the three women who had accompanied her.

Her mother, who had taught her to light Shabbat candles and read the prayers. Eitan’s mother, who had welcomed her into the family she hoped to join. Raven, who had helped her discover that she was worth loving long before Eitan had asked her to marry him.

Three women with very different beliefs and experiences, standing together in a small room in Jerusalem.

For a moment, Miriam felt the weight of everything that had brought her here: the years of disappointment, the nights she had cried alone, the conversations in cafés, the flowers in the garden, Eitan’s nervous smile when he had asked her to marry him.

She was not entering the mikveh to prove that she deserved any of it.

She was going because this was her mitzvah, her tradition, her choice to embrace the next stage of the life she and Eitan were building.

She took a breath.

“I’m ready.”

Her mother kissed her forehead. Eitan’s mother squeezed her hand. Raven gave her a small, solemn nod, with no joke to hide behind.

The attendant waited patiently as Miriam gathered herself.

Then Miriam stepped toward the doorway, ready to go into the mikveh.

“Just a minute,” Miriam said, her voice barely a whisper. “Please.”

The attendant paused, her expression one of practiced patience. She didn’t mind; the mikveh was a place of transitions, and transitions rarely happened on a strict schedule. She stepped back into the hallway, giving Miriam a sliver of sanctuary.

Miriam turned to the mirror. For years, she had looked at her reflection as a set of problems to be solved—the softness of her jaw, the curve of her stomach, the way her clothes never seemed to drape quite the way the magazines suggested. But tonight, stripped of the layers of modest dress and the expectations of the matchmakers, she saw something different.

She reached up and jiggled her breasts, watching the way they moved, feeling the weight and the warmth of her own skin. She didn’t look for flaws. Instead, she admired them. They were soft, generous, and entirely hers. She traced the line of her collarbone and the fullness of her chest, realizing that this body had carried her through twenty-five years of longing and laughter, and it had never once failed her. For the first time, she didn’t want to be smaller or firmer; she simply wanted to be herself.

Miriam looked around the quiet room and spotted the low, cushioned stool used for drying one’s feet. With a slow, deliberate motion, she dragged the chair to the center of the room, positioning herself precisely before the full-length mirror. She sat, leaning forward, her breath hitching in a mixture of curiosity and a newfound sense of ownership. Gently, she parted her labia, tilting her pelvis to catch the light, allowing herself to truly see her own vulva for the first time without the clinical haste of a doctor’s visit or the subconscious urge to hide.

She lingered there, observing the intricate folds of skin and the delicate, pale curve of her hymen. There was a profound, quiet beauty in the architecture of her own body—a symmetry and softness that felt sacred. She didn’t compare herself to any imagined ideal or wonder if she looked “correct.” Instead, she simply admired her genitalia, recognizing them as the gateway to the intimacy she had long desired and the physical manifestation of her womanhood. In the silence of the preparation room, the act of looking became an act of acceptance.

A soft cough sounded from the doorway. Miriam jumped slightly, quickly adjusting her position and smoothing her robe. The attendant was standing there, her expression neutral but her eyes kind.

“Are you quite ready, Miriam?” the woman asked. “The water is still, and the timing is right.”

Miriam took a deep breath, the scent of clean linens and faint soap filling her senses. The nervous flutter was still there, but it had changed. It was no longer a frantic desire to be seen as “enough” by someone else, but a quiet anticipation of her own transition. She stood up, feeling a strange, newfound solidity in her legs, as if she were finally standing on ground she actually owned.

The descent was a slow surrender of layers. First, the robe that felt like a protective shell, then the modest undergarments, until Miriam stood completely bare in the humid air of the chamber. For a moment, the coolness of the tiles against her soles felt like a grounding wire, anchoring her to the earth while her spirit hovered, breathless, just above her skin. She stepped into the water not as a girl seeking approval, but as a woman claiming her own space.

The immersion was a sudden, absolute silence. For a few seconds, the world ceased to exist—there were no matchmakers, no disappointed sighs, no purple-haired strangers or expectant parents. There was only the weightless, warm embrace of the water and the rhythmic thrum of her own heart. As she dipped below the surface, Miriam felt a symbolic shedding, as if the water were scrubbing away the years of feeling “not quite enough.” When she finally broke the surface and gasped for air, the light filtering through the ceiling seemed brighter, sharper, and infinitely more welcoming.

As she climbed out of the pool, the water streaming off her skin in shimmering ribbons, the atmosphere in the room shifted from solemnity to a sudden, electric warmth. She didn’t have time to fully wrap herself in the waiting towel before the circle closed in.

Her mother was the first, colliding with her in a fierce, tearful embrace that smelled of home and old perfumes. Then came Eitan’s mother, wrapping her arms around both of them in a protective cocoon of affection. Finally, Raven stepped forward. She didn’t hesitate or maintain a distance of “outsider” propriety; she dove into the hug with a joyful energy, her silver rings cold against Miriam’s damp shoulder.

“You did it,” Raven whispered, her voice uncharactersiticly soft, tucked against Miriam’s ear. “You’re officially a member of the ‘Survived the Mikveh’ club.”

Miriam returned to the dressing room, the air still clinging to her skin like a humid veil. On the small wooden vanity, nestled beside her neatly folded robe, lay a small, rectangular gift box wrapped in matte black paper with a single, shimmering silver ribbon. There was no card, but the handwriting on the tag was unmistakably Raven’s—bold, looping, and slightly chaotic.

Curiosity overcoming her modesty, Miriam untied the ribbon. Inside, resting against a bed of white tissue paper, was a set of black lace lingerie. It wasn’t the practical, pale-pink cotton she was used to, nor the modest shapes her mother had helped her pick out years ago. This was a set of architectural elegance—a bra with intricate floral patterns that looked like ink spilled on snow, and matching knickers that were daringly sheer, edged in a heavy, opulent lace. It was the kind of garment that didn’t just cover the body; it celebrated it.

Miriam stared at the fabric, feeling a sudden, sharp prickle of electricity in her chest. She looked at the mirror, then back at the black lace. For twenty-five years, her wardrobe had been a series of compromises—clothes chosen to be “appropriate,” to be “unobtrusive,” to ensure she didn’t draw the wrong kind of attention. This set was a loud, unapologetic claim to femininity. It was an invitation to be seen, not just as a bride-to-be or a daughter, but as a woman with desires of her own.

Slowly, she stepped out of her robe and slid into the lace. The fit was surprising—perfect, as if Raven had somehow intuited the exact geometry of her body. As the hooks clicked into place, Miriam didn’t feel exposed; she felt armored. The black lace contrasted sharply with her pale skin, emphasizing the curves she had spent a decade trying to minimize. She stood tall, her shoulders squaring, and for the first time, the reflection in the mirror didn’t look like a girl trying to fit a mold. She looked like a secret waiting to be told.

A soft knock sounded at the door. “Coming out yet?” Raven’s voice drifted in, stripped of its usual sarcasm and replaced with a genuine, quiet warmth. “The chocolate is melting, and the world is waiting for the new and improved Miriam.”

Miriam lingered for a second more, the lace scratching a delightful, forbidden itch against her skin. She pulled her dress and undergarments back on over the black set, hiding the secret beneath the layers of modesty. The contrast was exhilarating; the world saw a poised, traditional bride-to-be, but beneath the fabric, Miriam felt like a revolutionary. She stepped out of the room and into the hallway, the air feeling lighter, as if the weight of a thousand expectations had been lifted during her immersion.

As they navigated the exit, passing the quiet hum of the facility and the soft footsteps of other women, Raven leaned in. Her voice was a conspiratorial whisper, barely audible over the distant sound of a closing door.

“So,” Raven murmured, a mischievous glint in her eye. “How does it feel? Does the lace make you feel like a secret agent, or perhaps a gothic queen in disguise?”

Miriam felt a flush of warmth creep up her neck, but she didn’t look away. “It feels… powerful,” she admitted, her voice gaining a steadiness it had lacked only hours before. “Like I’m carrying a little piece of rebellion with me. Thank you, Raven. Truly. I didn’t know I needed to feel this way.”

Raven beamed, her purple hair catching the fluorescent light of the corridor. “That is the magic of high-quality lace, my friend. It provides a certain psychological fortitude.”

On the morning of her wedding, Miriam woke before the alarm.

For several seconds she lay perfectly still, looking at the ceiling of her childhood bedroom.

Then she remembered.

Today.

She was getting married today.

She sat up so quickly that the blanket slid to the floor.

Her phone was already buzzing on the bedside table. Messages from cousins, school friends, women from her mother’s synagogue, and Raven, who had sent a photograph of a black cat sitting inside a cardboard box with the caption:

Your wedding planner has arrived. He is refusing to wear a tie.

Miriam laughed aloud.

A second message appeared.

I have informed him that the dress code is formal. He has informed me that he is a cat.

Miriam typed back:

Please don’t let him near the flowers.

No promises.

She put the phone down and pressed both hands against her face.

She was happy. Terribly, wonderfully happy.

She was also frightened, because the day she had spent years imagining was now actually happening, and actual things were much more complicated than imagined ones.

In her imagined wedding, everything had always been a little blurry around the edges. There had been a dress, a chuppah, a handsome groom, and the feeling that at last she would belong somewhere.

Now she knew that belonging wasn’t something she had to wait for a man to give her. She belonged to her family. She belonged to her community. She had Raven, who had become family in a way neither of them had expected. And she had Eitan, whom she loved and had chosen, not because he had rescued her from being unwanted, but because she wanted to build a life with him.

Today, she would marry him.

Her mother appeared at the door, already dressed and carrying a cup of tea.

“You’re awake.”

“I appear to be.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Some.”

“How much is some?”

“Enough to be legally classified as sleep.”

Her mother gave her the tea.

“Drink this. Then we’ll get you ready.”

Miriam took a sip, looked at her mother, and suddenly began to cry.

“Oh, darling.” Her mother set down her own cup and wrapped her arms around her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Everything. Nothing. I’m getting married.”

Her mother held her tightly.

“Yes, you are.”

“What if I cry all day?”

“Then we’ll need more tissues.”

“What if the dress doesn’t fit?”

“Then we’ll deal with it.”

“What if—”

“Miriam.”

She stopped.

Her mother took her face gently between her hands.

“You don’t have to perform happiness for anyone today. You don’t have to be the perfect bride. You just have to be Miriam, and go and marry Eitan.”

Miriam nodded, wiping her cheeks.

“Now drink your tea before it gets cold. We have a very important appointment with a dress.”

The dress was beautiful.

Miriam had chosen it herself, after trying on enough dresses to develop strong opinions about sleeves, waistlines, fabric, and the strange habit bridal shops had of making every woman stand under a light that seemed designed to reveal her deepest insecurities.

This dress was ivory, with long lace sleeves, a high neckline, and a gently flowing skirt. The waist was fitted without being tight, and the fabric fell in soft folds that moved gracefully when she walked. The lace was delicate rather than elaborate, and small embroidered flowers ran along the cuffs and the edge of the veil.

She had chosen the flowers because they reminded her of the ones Eitan had brought her when he proposed.

Yellow and purple had been too colourful for the dress itself, but she had found a tiny way to include them: a discreet pair of embroidered flowers inside the hem, where only she would know they were there.

When she stepped out of the changing room, the women gathered around her fell silent.

Her mother pressed both hands to her mouth.

Eitan’s mother, who had come to help, stared at her with shining eyes.

“Oh, Miriam,” she whispered.

Miriam looked anxiously from one face to another.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” her mother said. Her voice was unsteady. “Nothing is wrong.”

Eitan’s mother came forward and took both her hands.

“You look absolutely beautiful.”

Miriam looked at herself in the mirror.

She had spent so many years looking at her reflection as if it were a problem to be solved. She had inspected her body for the reasons a man might reject her, measuring herself against standards she had never quite managed to satisfy.

Now she looked at the woman in the ivory dress and saw someone she recognized.

Her cheeks were still round. Her body was still her body. Nothing miraculous had happened to her weight overnight, and she had not become a different person.

She simply looked like herself, dressed for a day she was happy to be living.

Her eyes filled again.

Raven, who had been standing by the window in a long black dress with a high neckline and dark purple embroidery, approached her.

“I’m going to say something,” Raven announced, “and I want you to understand that I reserve the right to deny it later.”

Miriam laughed through her tears.

“What?”

“You look stunning.”

Miriam looked at her.

“Thank you.”

“And if Eitan fails to appreciate this properly, I will haunt him.”

“You don’t believe in ghosts.”

“I’ll improvise.”

They hugged carefully, mindful of the dress.

Then Raven stepped back and examined her.

“Actually, I think he’ll appreciate it. He has excellent taste in women.”

Miriam felt herself blush.

“Raven!”

“What? I’m trying to be supportive.”

“You’re trying to embarrass me.”

“Those things are not mutually exclusive.”

Miriam laughed again, and her mother began laughing too.

The room felt full of affection, of women who had come to help her prepare for one of the most important days of her life. Her mother adjusted the veil. Eitan’s mother checked the fastening at the back of the dress. Raven inspected the embroidered flowers and declared them satisfactory.

For once, Miriam did not feel that she was being examined.

She felt cared for.

Eitan had also made a decision about his suit.

He was wearing green.

Not the same dark green suit he had worn to meet Miriam’s parents, nor the one he had worn to the engagement party. This was a new suit in a slightly different shade: an extraordinarily dark forest green that looked almost black indoors but revealed its colour in the sunlight.

His shirt was white, his bow tie burgundy, and his very dark plum fedora had been brushed and prepared with an attention to detail that suggested his mother had been involved.

His father stood behind him while he adjusted his cuffs.

“You look very smart.”

“Thank you.”

“Very traditional.”

Eitan turned to look at him.

His father gave him an innocent expression.

“Traditional in the sense that you are wearing a suit, and a hat, and a bow tie, and have not arrived in a costume made entirely of curtains.”

“I appreciate your restraint.”

“I have been saving my more pointed observations for the wedding speech.”

“You promised not to give a wedding speech.”

“I promised not to give a long wedding speech.”

“Abba.”

His father laughed and put a hand on his shoulder.

Then his expression softened.

“Are you happy?”

Eitan looked down at his hands.

“Yes.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Eitan looked up.

“Good?”

“Of course. It would be worrying if you were entirely relaxed. You’re about to begin a life with someone you love. You should understand that it matters.”

Eitan was quiet for a moment.

“I keep thinking about the things we talked about. The ordinary things. Shabbat, children, work, arguments about furniture.”

“Those are the things that make a marriage.”

“I know.”

His father straightened the edge of the bow tie.

“Then remember them. The wedding is a beautiful day, but you are not marrying a dress, a photograph, or a collection of flowers. You are marrying Miriam.”

Eitan smiled.

“I know who I’m marrying.”

“Yes. That’s why you’re happy.”

His father embraced him, then stepped back and surveyed the suit.

“The colour is very good.”

“Thank you.”

“The hat is still a little unusual.”

“I would have been disappointed if you had changed your mind.”

His father chuckled.

“Come along, then. Let’s go get you married.”

The wedding was held in a garden venue in Jerusalem, with a large covered hall beside it in case the weather changed. The chuppah stood beneath the open sky, framed by simple wooden poles and soft fabric. Yellow and purple flowers were woven into the arrangements, and the late-afternoon light turned the Jerusalem stone walls golden.

The guests began arriving well before the ceremony.

There were relatives from both families, neighbours, friends from synagogue, people who had known Miriam since childhood, colleagues, and acquaintances who seemed to have discovered distant connections to the families as soon as the invitations were sent.

The women’s side of the seating area was already filling when Raven arrived.

She had made a deliberate choice not to dress as Shira.

She wore a long black skirt and a black blouse with a high neckline and full sleeves, with a dark purple jacket over it. Her boots were polished, her jewellery silver, and her purple hair had been carefully styled. The moth tattoo on her forearm was visible, and her piercings caught the light when she turned her head.

She looked elegant, unmistakably herself, and a little like someone who had arrived from a more interesting wedding than the one everyone else was attending.

She also looked nervous.

Miriam had asked her to be one of her principal companions that day, to stay close through the preparations and the moments before the ceremony. Raven had accepted immediately, then spent the next week insisting that she was perfectly capable of accompanying a bride without fainting, crying, or accidentally offending a rabbi.

She had not, however, entirely convinced herself.

As she entered the women’s seating area, two women near the door glanced at her and whispered.

“Who is that?”

“I think she’s one of Miriam’s friends.”

“Look at her hair.”

“And the tattoo.”

“Is she really going to be with the bride?”

The second woman lowered her voice.

“I don’t know. I thought Miriam’s family was quite conventional.”

Before either could say more, a woman sitting nearby turned to them.

“She’s Raven. She’s one of Miriam’s closest friends.”

The first woman looked uncertain.

“But—”

“But nothing,” the older woman said. “She has been a wonderful friend to Miriam. I’ve heard the story from Miriam’s mother herself.”

Another guest joined the conversation.

“Isn’t she the one who helped Miriam when she was having such a difficult time with shidduchim?”

“Yes,” the older woman replied. “She helped her regain her confidence. And she has been there throughout the engagement.”

The first woman glanced again at Raven, who was now helping an elderly guest find her seat.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Well, now you do.”

There was no dramatic confrontation. The whispers did not vanish altogether, because weddings were still weddings and people were still people. A few guests remained puzzled. Some had opinions about Raven’s clothes, her hair, or the fact that she was not religious.

But others knew her story, and they told it.

They explained that she was a good friend. That she had helped Miriam when she needed someone. That Miriam loved her and wanted her beside her on this day.

And as Raven moved through the room, greeting people politely and helping where she could, it became increasingly difficult to think of her as merely an unusual appearance.

She was, quite plainly, someone who had come to celebrate a woman she loved.

Miriam’s mother found her near the entrance and took both her hands.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

Raven looked momentarily startled.

“Thank you. I’m glad to be here.”

“You look lovely.”

Raven glanced down at her black clothes.

“You really don’t have to say that.”

“I know. That’s why I mean it.”

Raven’s face softened.

Miriam’s mother hugged her.

“And please, if anyone makes you uncomfortable, tell me.”

Raven looked at her with affection.

“I think I can handle a few whispers.”

“I know you can. But you shouldn’t have to handle everything alone.”

Raven swallowed.

“You’re becoming rather good at this, you know.”

“At what?”

“Being unexpectedly wonderful.”

Miriam’s mother laughed.

“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”

When the ceremony began, Miriam stood in a quiet room with her mother, Eitan’s mother, Raven, and several other women who had helped her prepare.

She could hear the music outside. Guests were taking their seats. Somewhere beyond the door, a child was asking a question loudly enough to be heard by what seemed like the entire wedding party.

Miriam smiled.

She was not going to remember the day as perfectly silent or perfectly orderly.

She was going to remember that everyone had come.

Her mother adjusted the veil one final time.

“Are you ready?”

Miriam took a deep breath.

“Yes.”

Raven stood on her other side, her usual humour softened by emotion.

“You know,” she whispered, “there’s still time to run away.”

Miriam looked at her.

“Where would I go?”

“I have a very comfortable sofa.”

“And no husband.”

“That’s the main advantage.”

Miriam laughed, then reached for Raven’s hand.

“Thank you for being here.”

Raven squeezed it.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

The music swelled.

The door opened.

And Miriam walked toward the chuppah.

For a moment, the crowd seemed to blur. She could see her father waiting, his eyes bright. She could see Eitan standing beneath the canopy in his dark green suit, burgundy bow tie, and plum fedora, looking more nervous than she had ever seen him.

When he saw her, he stopped moving.

His face changed.

It was not the look of a man who had found a suitable bride, or who was satisfied that a difficult process had reached its expected conclusion.

It was the look of a man who had been waiting for someone he loved.

Miriam felt her own smile spread.

Eitan looked beautiful. He looked ridiculous in the most endearing possible way. He looked exactly like Eitan.

And she was going to marry him.

Under the chuppah, the rabbi welcomed the guests and spoke briefly about the Jewish wedding ceremony: the covenant they were entering, the obligations they were accepting, the joy of building a home, and the importance of treating one another with dignity.

Miriam listened, holding Eitan’s hand.

The blessings began.

The words were ancient, familiar, and new all at once. Miriam had heard them at countless weddings. She had stood among the women, watching other brides beneath the canopy, wondering when it would be her turn.

Now she was there herself.

Eitan placed the ring on her finger, and the words he recited were clear and steady.

Miriam looked at the ring, then at him.

She had chosen this.

She had chosen him.

The ketubah was read. The witnesses fulfilled their role. The blessings were recited over the wine, and the guests answered amen.

Then came the moment when Eitan broke the glass.

There was the sharp crack, followed by the familiar cry of Mazal tov!

The garden erupted in joy.

Miriam laughed, and Eitan laughed too, and for a few seconds they stood facing one another in the middle of the noise, both looking a little astonished that they had actually arrived here.

Then they were surrounded by family and friends.

Her father embraced her. Her mother kissed her cheeks and cried. Eitan’s parents held them both, his mother saying mazal tov so many times that it became a sort of musical refrain.

Raven stood a little behind them, smiling through tears.

When Miriam saw her, she reached out.

“Come here.”

Raven came, and Miriam hugged her tightly.

“You did it,” Raven whispered.

“We did it,” Miriam replied.

Raven shook her head, smiling.

“No, darling. You did. I just brought biscuits.”

Miriam laughed against her shoulder.

“And excellent advice.”

“And excellent advice.”

The wedding feast was everything they had hoped it would be.

The hall was full of warm light, flowers, music, and the noise of a large Jewish family enjoying itself. The tables were decorated simply, with yellow and purple flowers in small glass vases. The little cards explaining the flowers and the old Jerusalem wall from Eitan’s proposal were placed beside the centrepieces.

Several guests stopped to read them.

One of Eitan’s cousins remarked that it was the first wedding table decoration he had encountered that came with a story and did not involve a quotation from the Song of Songs printed in gold lettering.

Eitan replied that he had considered including a footnote, but Miriam had forbidden it.

“I did not forbid it,” Miriam protested.

“You said that if I included footnotes on the table decorations, you would marry someone else.”

“That was a very specific objection.”

“An objection nonetheless.”

Their table laughed.

The food was excellent, the caterers were competent, and—thanks to Miriam’s insistence—everyone had enough time to eat before the dancing began. There were speeches, but Eitan’s father kept his promise and gave a short one.

He spoke about his son as a child who had always asked questions, preferred old buildings to new toys, and insisted that the colour of an object was a legitimate reason to like it.

He spoke about Miriam’s kindness and curiosity, and about the way she seemed to understand Eitan without needing him to become someone else.

Then he raised his glass.

“To Miriam and Eitan. May you build a home in which questions are welcome, disagreements are survivable, and there is always enough food for whoever arrives.”

Miriam’s mother, seated beside him, murmured, “That last part is very important.”

“It is the foundation of civilization,” he replied.

The guests applauded.

There was dancing, separate for men and women in keeping with the families’ Orthodox practice. On the women’s side, Miriam’s mother danced with Eitan’s mother, Tzipora danced with her cousins, and Raven—after insisting that she was only going to watch—was pulled into the circle.

She danced badly, enthusiastically, and without the slightest embarrassment.

At one point she found herself between Miriam’s mother and a great-aunt who had never previously spoken to her.

The great-aunt inspected Raven’s purple hair while they danced.

“Is it difficult to maintain that colour?”

Raven nearly missed a step.

“Not especially. It fades, so I have to refresh it.”

“Does it damage your hair?”

“Less than some of the things I’ve done to it.”

The great-aunt considered this.

“Well. At least you’re honest.”

“Thank you?”

Then the older woman took Raven’s hand and swung her back into the dance.

By the end of the evening, Raven had danced with Miriam, Tzipora, Miriam’s mother, and several women whose names she had forgotten but whose enthusiasm she would remember for a long time.

On the men’s side, Eitan was being lifted onto a chair by a group of friends and cousins who had apparently decided that the most sensible way to celebrate a marriage was to remove the groom from the floor.

He looked alarmed.

Miriam, watching from the women’s side, laughed until her cheeks hurt.

At one point, she caught his eye over the crowd.

He raised his eyebrows as if to ask whether she was enjoying herself.

She nodded.

He smiled.

And for a moment, despite the music and the noise and the hundreds of details that had gone into making the day possible, they were simply two people looking at one another across a room.

Her husband.

The word still felt astonishing.

Later, when the dancing paused and the guests returned to their tables, Miriam and Eitan sat together for a few quiet minutes.

He loosened his bow tie slightly.

“You look tired,” he said.

“So do you.”

“I’ve been carried through the air by several men who apparently consider themselves responsible for my happiness.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I have mixed feelings about their methods.”

Miriam leaned her head briefly against his shoulder.

“I’m happy.”

He turned toward her.

“So am I.”

“So am I.”

She looked around the hall: at her parents talking with his, at their relatives sharing food, at friends laughing, at Raven sitting beside Tzipora and apparently explaining why the moth tattoo was not a sign of impending doom.

“I was so worried that the wedding would feel like something everyone else had arranged for us,” she admitted. “Something we had to perform correctly.”

“And does it?”

“No. It feels like ours.”

Eitan took her hand.

“Good.”

“Even the footnotes?”

“Especially the footnotes.”

She laughed and kissed his cheek.

They stayed until the feast was nearly over. There were more photographs, more embraces, more blessings, and more people telling them how happy they looked. Miriam thanked everyone who came. Eitan thanked the caterers and then asked whether the old stone wall at the garden venue had been built in the nineteenth century, which made Miriam laugh so hard that she had to lean against him.

Eventually, the last guests began to leave.

The hall grew quieter. Tables were cleared. Flowers were gathered. The music stopped, leaving behind the strange hush that follows a celebration when everyone has finally gone home.

Miriam changed into a simpler, comfortable outfit. Eitan changed into a clean shirt and jacket, keeping his new dark green suit for the photographs they had promised their parents they would take the following day.

Raven waited for them outside, carrying a bag.

“Biscuits?” Eitan asked.

“Of course.”

“Excellent. I have been assured that they are beyond criticism.”

“Don’t test me on your wedding night.”

Miriam laughed, then reached for Raven’s hand.

“Thank you for everything.”

Raven squeezed her fingers.

“You’re welcome. Now come on. The others are waiting.”

The location was a small private garden on the edge of Jerusalem, tucked behind an old stone house. Raven had visited it many times. The owner, one of her coven friends, had given them permission to use it for the evening, and the others had spent the afternoon arranging the space.

By the time Miriam and Eitan arrived, night had settled over the city. The air was cool, and the stone walls held the last trace of the day’s warmth. Small lanterns glowed along the path, illuminating pots of flowers and the leaves of a vine climbing over an archway.

There was no elaborate altar, no grand display, and no attempt to make the place look like a second wedding venue.

There were chairs arranged in a loose circle. There were candles in glass holders. There were yellow and purple flowers on a low table, along with a teapot, cups, and several plates of biscuits.

A few of Raven’s friends stood near the entrance, waiting to welcome them.

They looked like a gathering of people who had come from different corners of the world and agreed that black was an excellent colour in which to wish someone well.

One woman wore a dark green dress embroidered with stars. Another had silver rings on nearly every finger. A third, whose hair was cropped short and dyed blue, carried a small notebook containing the words she planned to read.

They greeted Miriam warmly, then turned to Eitan with equally genuine smiles.

“Thank you for coming,” said the woman in the green dress.

“Thank you for inviting us,” Eitan replied.

There was no pressure in their welcome. No one asked him to profess a belief he did not hold. No one suggested that the evening would determine the fate of his marriage.

Raven had kept her promise.

Miriam stood beside Eitan and looked into the garden.

She thought of the chuppah, the blessings, the ring on her finger, the noise of the dancing, and the faces of the people who loved them. She thought of the words they had chosen for this gathering: that love should be a shelter, never a cage; that they should make room for each other’s questions; that neither should have to become smaller in order to be loved.

She did not expect the evening to guarantee them happiness.

She hoped it would remind them what happiness asked of them.

Eitan turned to her.

“Are you ready?”

She looked at him and smiled.

“Yes.”

He took her hand.

Together, they walked toward the garden gate.

Raven opened it for them and stepped aside, her purple hair bright in the lantern light.

Beyond the gate, her friends waited in their circle of chairs, with candles, flowers, tea, and wishes for a life that had only just begun.

Miriam and Eitan paused on the threshold, hand in hand, just about to go in.

Raven let them stand at the gate for a moment, taking in the garden.

“Well,” she said, “you’ve made it through the wedding without anyone fainting, losing a ring, or accidentally setting fire to the chuppah. I think we can call that a success.”

“Your standards are remarkably low,” Eitan observed.

“I have attended a lot of family celebrations.”

Miriam laughed, still holding Eitan’s hand. Her feet ached, her cheeks hurt from smiling, and there were pins in her hair that she suspected she would be finding for the next week. But she felt light, as though the day had been so full of happiness that some of it had spilled over into the quiet night.

Raven gestured toward the garden.

“Before we begin, there’s something you should know. The owner of this place, Yael, has prepared the guest suite for you. The coven helped.”

Eitan glanced at her.

“The guest suite?”

“Yes. You didn’t think we’d invite you here after your wedding feast, keep you up for a ritual, and then send you off to find a taxi, did you?”

“I had not given the matter much thought.”

“Clearly. It’s one of your few remaining weaknesses.”

Miriam looked from Raven to the house behind the garden.

“You’ve prepared somewhere for us to stay?”

“Somewhere very nice,” Raven said. “Yael insists that the room is hers to offer, and she’s delighted to do it. It’s private, it’s comfortable, and nobody is going to disturb you. You can stay there tonight if you wish, or simply rest there before deciding what you’d like to do.”

Miriam’s cheeks warmed. She and Eitan had discussed their wedding night, of course. They had spoken honestly about expectations, nerves, privacy, and the fact that neither of them needed to pretend to be more experienced or more confident than they were. But hearing that their friends had prepared a room for them made the whole thing feel suddenly real in a new way.

Eitan, who had evidently reached the same realization, adjusted his jacket.

“That was thoughtful of them,” he said.

“It was,” Raven replied. Her expression softened. “We wanted you to have somewhere that felt peaceful. Somewhere you could close the door and just be together, without having to worry about the next thing on the schedule.”

Miriam squeezed Eitan’s hand.

“Thank you.”

Raven gave her a little smile.

“Come on. I’ll show you.”

The guest suite was at the back of the old stone house, reached by a short passage from the garden. Yael, the owner, had left the door open and a small lamp burning inside.

Raven paused on the threshold.

“Full disclosure: the decorating was a collaborative effort. Yael provided the room, I made suggestions, and the others decided that if I was allowed to choose everything, it would look like a funeral parlour for very fashionable vampires.”

“I see,” Eitan said.

“So there are limits to my artistic authority.”

She opened the door wider.

Miriam stopped.

The room was beautiful.

It was not grand or ostentatious. There were no elaborate decorations or expensive displays. Instead, everything had been arranged with an almost astonishing attention to comfort.

The walls were pale cream, warmed by soft lamplight. An old wooden bed stood against one wall, covered with a thick quilt in deep plum and muted gold. Several cushions rested against the headboard, and a knitted blanket lay folded at the foot of the bed. A small vase held yellow and purple flowers on the bedside table.

There were candles in glass holders on a low dresser, though they were unlit, and a pair of shaded lamps provided enough light to make the room feel intimate without being dark. A little tray held a teapot, two cups, a covered plate of biscuits, and a small bowl of fruit. Fresh towels had been placed in the bathroom, and a screen stood near the wardrobe to give them privacy while changing.

Beside the window, two comfortable chairs faced one another, with a small table between them. Beyond the glass, the garden was visible in fragments: the pale stone wall, the leaves of the vine, and the glow of the lanterns.

It looked like a room designed for two people who had spent a long day surrounded by other people and now needed somewhere gentle to land.

Miriam let out a quiet breath.

“Oh.”

Raven watched her face.

“Good oh, or bad oh?”

“Good oh.”

“Excellent. We spent a frankly unreasonable amount of time arguing about the quilt.”

Eitan stepped inside and looked around with interest.

“The room is very well arranged. The chairs are placed so that you can look at each other without being forced to sit too close, and the lamps are warm enough to make the room comfortable without being impractical.”

Raven stared at him.

“Did you just critique the room’s lighting?”

“It’s good lighting.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“It was intended as one.”

Miriam walked over to the bedside table and touched one of the flowers.

“It’s lovely,” she said. “And so thoughtful.”

“Yael wanted to give you something that wasn’t another wedding present you would have to find space for in your apartment,” Raven explained. “She said a night of peace was more useful than another serving dish.”

Miriam laughed.

“Your friends are wonderful.”

“They are. Don’t tell them I said that, though. It will go to their heads.”

Raven turned toward the wardrobe and opened its doors. Inside hung two plain black robes, one for Miriam and one for Eitan. They were made of soft, comfortable fabric, with long sleeves and simple ties at the waist.

“And these,” Raven said, taking them out, “are for the ritual.”

Eitan accepted his robe and examined it.

“Plain black.”

“Plain black,” Raven confirmed. “No embroidery, no symbols, no charms hidden in the seams. They’re just robes. We thought you might appreciate something simple and comfortable, and black goes with everything.”

“An excellent argument.”

“Thank you. I’ve been working on it for years.”

Miriam held her robe against herself. The fabric was soft, and the sleeves were roomy enough to move in.

“Are we supposed to wear these for the whole ritual?”

“Yes. It makes the gathering feel a little different from the wedding feast. Not a second ceremony, not another marriage. Just a pause between the public celebration and the private life you’re beginning together.”

Raven laid the robes carefully across the end of the bed.

“There’s one more thing I should explain. We thought you might want to change out of your wedding clothes before joining the circle. You’ve been wearing them all day, and you deserve to be comfortable.”

Miriam glanced at Eitan, then back at Raven.

“Right.”

“You can help each other out of your wedding clothes,” Raven continued, speaking gently and without teasing. “Fold them carefully and leave them here. Then put on the robes and come back out to the garden together. It’s entirely your choice how much help you need from one another. You can take your time, and you don’t have to do anything that makes either of you uncomfortable.”

Eitan nodded slowly.

“Thank you for making that clear.”

“Of course. This is your evening. The ritual is meant to honour your love, not give anyone permission to tell you what to do with it.”

Miriam looked down at the robe in her hands. She thought of the wedding dress, the veil, the ring, the hours of preparation and the moment she had walked toward Eitan beneath the chuppah. Those clothes had been part of the public celebration, part of the way she had marked this day with her family and community.

Now she would put them aside, not because she was leaving that part of her life behind, but because the next part belonged to the two of them.

She looked up at Eitan.

“Shall we?”

He smiled.

“Yes.”

Raven moved toward the door.

“I’ll wait outside. Take as long as you like. There’s no rush, and nobody is going to come looking for you. I’ll make sure of that.”

She paused, one hand on the doorframe.

“And Miriam?”

“Yes?”

“You look happy.”

Miriam smiled back at her.

“I am.”

“Good. That’s all I wanted.”

Raven slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.

For a moment, Miriam and Eitan stood in the quiet room, each holding a black robe.

The sounds of the garden were faint through the window: a murmur of conversation, the soft movement of chairs, the occasional laugh. The wedding seemed both very close and very far away. Only a short time ago, they had been surrounded by relatives and friends, standing beneath the chuppah while everyone watched them begin their marriage.

Now they were alone.

Eitan set his robe on the chair and turned toward Miriam.

“Are you all right?”

She laughed softly.

“I think so. I’m just trying to understand how the day has gone by so quickly.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I spent years imagining my wedding. And now it’s happened, and I can’t quite believe it.”

He took her hand.

“You don’t have to understand everything tonight.”

“I know.”

“And we don’t have to do anything perfectly.”

She smiled at him.

“You sound as though you’re quoting your father.”

“I suspect I am.”

Miriam leaned against him for a moment, resting her head against his shoulder. He put his arms around her, careful of the dress, and held her quietly.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you too.”

The words were not part of a formal blessing or a promise spoken beneath a canopy. They were simply true, and they belonged to them.

When they drew apart, Eitan looked at the robe waiting on the chair.

“I should warn you that I may look rather strange in this.”

“You’re wearing a black robe after spending the day in a green suit and a plum hat. I think you can survive the transition.”

“I’m relieved to have your confidence.”

Miriam laughed.

They began to change, helping one another carefully with the fastenings and sleeves of their wedding clothes. There was a little awkwardness, a few quiet jokes, and the occasional pause when one of them had to work out how a particular button or clasp functioned. Nothing about it felt like a performance. They were simply two people who loved each other, learning how to be comfortable together.

They folded their clothes and set them aside. Miriam placed her veil carefully over the back of a chair, smoothing the embroidered flowers before she let go. Eitan laid his bow tie beside it.

Then they put on the black robes.

The fabric fell softly around them, simple and unadorned. Miriam tied the sash at her waist and looked at Eitan, who was adjusting his sleeves with the same concentration he might have given a complicated architectural drawing.

“Well?” she asked.

He surveyed her with exaggerated seriousness.

“The robe is excellent. Very practical. I approve of the sleeves.”

“Thank you. I was hoping to meet your standards.”

“You exceed them.”

She smiled, and he reached for her hand.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Miriam glanced at the door.

“Shall we join them?”

Eitan nodded.

“Let’s.”

Raven was waiting just outside the garden door. When she saw them, her face lit up.

“There you are. I was beginning to think you’d discovered the biscuits and decided never to leave.”

“We considered it,” Eitan said.

“A wise decision. The biscuits are excellent.”

She looked at them both, and her expression became unexpectedly tender.

“You look lovely,” she said.

Miriam glanced down at her plain black robe.

“I look like I’m about to attend a very unusual book club.”

“That’s exactly the aesthetic we’re going for.”

Raven led them back into the garden.

The others were ready. The chairs had been arranged in a loose circle beneath the vine-covered arch, with the yellow and purple flowers in the centre. Small candles glowed in their glass holders, their light reflected in the old stone walls. There was no elaborate display, no grand entrance, no sense that anyone was waiting for a spectacle.

The woman with blue hair stood beside a small table holding a notebook. Yael, the owner of the house, greeted Miriam and Eitan with a warm smile and offered them tea. Another member of the group moved a chair slightly to make more room in the circle.

Raven spoke quietly as she led them to the centre.

“Before we begin, I want you to know that you can stop at any point. You can ask a question, take a break, or simply listen. You don’t have to repeat anything, and nobody will ask you to make a promise. We’re here to offer you our good wishes, and to celebrate the love you’ve chosen.”

Eitan nodded.

“Thank you.”

Miriam looked around at the faces in the circle. Some she knew from the evenings she had spent with Raven; others she had met only briefly. They were different from one another in their clothes, their beliefs, their mannerisms, and the things they hoped for. But all of them had come because Raven had asked them to celebrate two people who mattered to her.

Miriam reached for Eitan’s hand.

He took it, his fingers warm around hers.

Together, they stood in the middle of the circle, dressed in their simple black robes, with the clothes from their wedding folded safely inside the guest suite and the yellow and purple flowers between them.

The garden grew quiet.

Raven took her place facing them. She glanced once at Miriam, then at Eitan, and gave them a small, reassuring smile.

The candles flickered in the evening air.

Everyone was ready.

And the ritual was about to begin.

The circle began to move. It wasn’t a choreographed dance, but a slow, rhythmic procession, a tide of black fabric drifting around Miriam and Eitan. The women walked with a steady, grounding cadence, their voices rising in a low, melodic hum that seemed to vibrate in the very stone of the garden walls.

“May the fire of passion never cool,” one voice murmured, “and may the quiet of love always be your shelter.”

As the circle turned, the atmosphere shifted. There was no sudden shock, only a gradual, honest shedding. One by one, the robes were loosened. A shoulder of pale skin emerged here; a silk slip was revealed there. The act of undressing wasn’t performed for a gaze, but as a ritual of vulnerability. To Raven and her friends, the clothes were merely husks. By shedding them, they were offering the couple a blessing of truth—the idea that in a partnership, there is nothing to hide, no armor to maintain, and no shame to carry.

Miriam felt a strange, soaring sense of liberation watching them. She had spent her entire life dressing for the approval of others, layering her personality and her appearance to fit the mold of a “respectable girl.” Yet here, surrounded by women who viewed the body as a temple rather than a commodity, she felt the tension leave her shoulders. The sight of them—unashamed, natural, and radiating a fierce kind of kindness—made the world feel wider than it had been that morning.

Eitan’s hand tightened slightly around hers, not out of discomfort, but out of a shared awe. He looked at Miriam, and for the first time, she saw that he wasn’t looking at her as a bride or a partner in a social contract. He was looking at her as if she were the only solid thing in a swirling, mystical world.

The hum of the voices shifted, growing deeper and more insistent, as the last of the black robes pooled upon the grass. There was no hesitation, no lingering modesty; the women stood completely naked in the flickering candlelight, their bodies an eclectic map of stretch marks, tattoos, and silver piercings. They were no longer just friends or acquaintances; they had become a living circle of flesh and spirit, stripped of every social artifice.

“May your touch be a spark,” Raven’s voice rang out, clear and commanding, yet laced with a playful warmth. “May your hunger for one another never be sated, and may the walls of your bedroom be the only boundaries you ever encounter.”

The blessings turned visceral. The women spoke of heat, of the rhythmic pulse of desire, and the sacredness of pleasure. They didn’t speak of marriage in the sense of stability or lineage, but of the electric, animal magnetism that keeps two people tethered. They prayed for a passion that would burn through the mundane chores of a shared life, for a curiosity that would never cease to explore the other’s skin, and for the kind of intimacy that leaves one breathless and undone.

Miriam felt a flush creep up her neck, but for the first time, it wasn’t from embarrassment. It was a mirroring of the heat radiating from the circle. Looking at these women, she realized that the “shame” she had been taught to guard—the modesty that felt like a shield—was actually a fence keeping her from her own desires. The raw, honest presence of the naked women didn’t feel obscene; it felt like an invitation to be human.

She glanced at Eitan. In the soft, amber glow of the candles, his expression was one of profound awakening. He wasn’t staring with the clinical eye of a stranger or the hunger of a predator; he was looking at the scene—and then at her—with a newfound understanding of what it meant to be desired and to desire in return. The air between them, usually polite and carefully choreographed, suddenly felt heavy and charged.

The humming of the circle slowly tapered off into a comfortable, companionable silence. One by one, the women stepped back, the spell of the ritual breaking as they began to laugh and chatter, their nakedness returning from a sacred state to a casual one. Raven gave the couple a final, knowing wink before gesturing toward the guest suite, signaling that the public portion of their evening had officially concluded.

As the door clicked shut behind them, the sudden silence of the room felt heavy, vibrating with the leftover energy of the garden. The soft lamplight cast long, dancing shadows against the plum-colored quilt. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The air was thick with a new, unspoken tension—a curiosity that had been stoked by the raw honesty of the ritual.

Miriam felt a sudden, urgent need to be closer to him. She reached out, her fingers brushing the coarse black fabric of Eitan’s robe. With a slow, deliberate motion, he untied the sash. The robe slid from his shoulders, pooling at his feet like a shadow.

Miriam’s breath hitched. She had spent years imagining the intimacy of a wedding night, but her imagination had been framed by modesty and vague suggestions. Seeing him now, fully revealed in the warm glow of the room, was a revelation. Her eyes traveled downward, and she found herself momentarily speechless, her gaze locking onto the sheer scale of him. He was erect, a towering testament to the desire he had been suppressing all evening. The sheer size of him was unexpected, almost overwhelming, a masculine presence that seemed to command the very air between them.

“Eitan,” she whispered, her voice sounding small and breathless even to her own ears.

Eitan didn’t answer with words. Instead, he stepped into her space, his presence sudden and encompassing. His hands, usually so careful and tentative, found the tie of her robe with a focused intensity. As he pulled the knot loose, the fabric parted, sliding off her shoulders in a slow, silken descent that felt like a long-held breath finally being released.

He stopped for a moment, his gaze sweeping over her with a hunger that made Miriam’s skin prickle with heat. “Beautiful,” he whispered, the word vibrating deep in his chest. “Miriam, you are absolutely beautiful.”

The compliment wasn’t the polite, measured praise of a suitor; it was a raw admission. Before she could respond, he reached for her, his hands locking onto her waist and pulling her flush against him. The contact was electric—the sudden, jarring contrast of her soft skin against the hard planes of his body. He tilted her head back and crashed his lips onto hers in a kiss that was wild, urgent, and entirely devoid of the hesitation that had defined their courtship.

It was a collision of months of suppressed longing. Miriam let out a small, muffled gasp against his mouth, her hands instinctively flying up to clutch at his shoulders, pulling him closer as if she could merge her very existence into his. The kiss tasted of salt and suddenness, a frantic exchange that left them both breathless. For Miriam, the world narrowed down to the scent of his skin and the overwhelming pressure of his body against hers, erasing the memory of the bus, the matchmaker, and the suffocating expectations of her community.

Slowly, the desperation of the kiss evolved into something deeper, more rhythmic. Eitan’s hands migrated from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her firmly into the heat of him. Miriam felt the sheer scale of his desire pressing against her thighs, a physical promise that made her heart hammer against her ribs. She had spent so long feeling invisible or “too quiet,” but under Eitan’s touch, she felt vivid, seen, and profoundly wanted.

The same hand that had guided her to the bed reached out to the lamp, plunging the room into a soft, amber haze. The sudden dimming of the lights felt like a curtain closing on the rest of the world, leaving only the two of them in a private, hushed sanctuary. As they moved toward the mattress, the air remained heavy and electric, the silence of the room amplified by the synchronized thumping of their hearts.

Miriam let herself fall back against the pillows, the cool fabric a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Eitan. With a slow, tentative breath, she opened her legs, a gesture of total surrender and invitation. She felt a flicker of the old modesty, but it was quickly incinerated by the intensity of Eitan’s gaze. He didn’t rush; he lingered at the edge of the bed, his eyes tracing the lines of her body as if he were memorizing a sacred text.

When he finally descended, the touch of his lips was a revelation. Miriam let out a sharp, jagged breath, her fingers tangling in the sheets as he began. She didn’t know how to ask for what she wanted in words, so she used her touch, her hips tilting instinctively to guide him, showing him exactly where the tension was highest. She felt the warmth of his breath against her most sensitive skin, a rhythmic, pulsing heat that made her arch her back, her entire body vibrating with a sensation she had only ever read about in hushed tones.

It was a slow exploration, an unfolding of desire that felt earned. Every flick of his tongue, every soft pressure of his lips, was a question asked and an answer given. Miriam closed her eyes, the world dissolving into a kaleidoscope of gold and shadow, as she guided him deeper into her pleasure. The vulnerability she had felt in the garden—the stripping away of the robes—had culminated here, in this raw, honest exchange of breath and skin.

As the intensity built, Miriam found herself laughing softly, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. It was a strange, beautiful feeling to be seen so completely and to find that the person looking at her was utterly captivated. The fear of not being “enough” or “suitable” vanished, replaced by the visceral reality of Eitan’s devotion to her pleasure.

The world had narrowed down to the space between them, a sanctuary of amber light and heavy breathing. Eitan shifted, his weight a comforting anchor as he positioned himself. He didn’t rush; there was a profound, quiet reverence in the way he looked at her, as if he were stepping across a threshold into a place where he was finally, truly welcome.

As he began to enter her, the movement was slow, a gentle pressure that felt like a conversation they were having without words. Miriam held her breath, her muscles tense with a mixture of anticipation and an old, ingrained fear of the unknown. Then, a sharp, sudden flash of pain spiked through her—a searing tear that made her gasp, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. For a heartbeat, the world flickered, the ghost of every modest warning she’d ever been given echoing in her mind.

But Eitan didn’t pull away, nor did he push forward. He froze, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm on her cheek. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble that seemed to soothe the very edges of her nerves. “Just breathe with me, Miriam. Just breathe.”

She obeyed, letting out a long, shuddering exhale. As the initial shock subsided, the pain didn’t simply vanish; it evolved. It softened, melting into a deep, radiating warmth that began to bloom from the center of her being. The sharpness turned into a fullness, a stretching sensation that felt less like a wound and more like an opening. As he began to move again—inch by agonizingly slow inch—the discomfort was overtaken by a surging tide of pleasure, a visceral electricity that made her arch her back and moan into the hollow of his neck.

The transition was seamless, a bridge crossing from fear into a territory of absolute intimacy. The physical sensation of him filling her was overwhelming, a profound sense of completion that went beyond the biological. It was the feeling of being known, of being chosen, and of finally letting go of the girl who had to be perfect for the sake of a matchmaker’s list.

The rhythm of their movements shifted from a tentative exploration to a focused, driving passion. Eitan’s weight was a welcome pressure, his breath a hot, ragged cadence against her ear. Miriam found herself clinging to him, her legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper into the heat of her. She had spent years feeling as though she were taking up too much space in the world, but here, in the sanctuary of their shared breath, she realized she was exactly the right size for him.

She marveled at the sheer presence of him inside her. He was massive, a filling weight that stretched her in ways that felt honest and profound. With every slow, deep thrust, she felt a surge of electricity travel from the point of their connection straight to her heart. It wasn’t just the physical scale of him, but the way he moved—with a gentle, unwavering intention, as if he were carefully carving out a permanent place for himself within her.

Miriam let out a low, guttural sound, her head falling back against the pillow. The tension in her lower belly tightened, coiling like a spring, until the world around her dissolved into a blur of amber light. A sudden, violent wave of pleasure crashed over her, shattering her composure. Her orgasm was a tidal wave, a rhythmic pulsing that seized her entire body, leaving her gasping for air while the echoes of the pleasure continued to ripple through her skin.

As she peaked, Eitan let out a low, guttural groan. He surged forward one last time, his body locking tight against hers as he reached his own breaking point. Miriam felt the sudden, hot rush of him filling her—a massive, pulsing release of semen that felt like a warm flood, an overflowing seal of the intimacy they had just discovered. He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead pressed against hers, both of them shaking with the intensity of the release.

Eventually, the world slowed down. The frantic thumping of their hearts began to synchronize, and the silence of the room returned, though it was no longer heavy with tension. It was light, airy, and filled with the scent of salt and skin.

The tile was shockingly cold against Miriam’s soles, a stark contrast to the lingering fire in her veins. As she stood before the mirror, the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom revealed the aftermath of their union. There, stark and crimson against the pale cream of her inner thighs, were several small streaks of blood. She stared at them for a moment, not with alarm, but with a profound sense of transition.

In the quiet of the bathroom, the blood felt like a signature—a physical marker of a threshold crossed. But as she began to wash, the familiar weight of tradition settled over her. This blood, the evidence of her initiation, rendered her niddah—ritually impure. For a few moments, she simply let the warm water run over her skin, contemplating the irony: she had never felt more spiritually connected to Eitan, yet according to the laws of her people, she was now forbidden from touching him.

Eitan waited patiently outside the door, his voice a low, comforting hum as he asked if she needed anything. When she finally emerged, wrapped in a plush white towel, he looked at her with an expression of such raw tenderness that it almost made her ache. He didn’t ask about the blood; he didn’t need to. He knew the laws as well as she did. There was no judgment in his eyes, only a quiet acceptance of the boundary that now existed between them.

They returned to the bedroom, where the air was still heavy with the scent of their encounter. With a synchronized, almost subconscious effort, they began to dismantle the intimacy of the night. They shifted the mattresses, sliding them apart until a distinct gap of floorboards separated one from the other. It was a practical necessity, a physical manifestation of the ritual purity laws, but as they each climbed into their own separate space, the distance felt poignant.

Miriam lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. The gap between the beds felt like a canyon, yet she didn’t feel the loneliness that had plagued her for years. For the first time, the solitude wasn’t a result of being unwanted; it was a sacred pause. She could hear Eitan’s breathing, steady and close, and she knew that this temporary separation was merely the prologue to a lifetime of coming back together.

Morning came softly to the little stone house on the edge of Jerusalem.

Sunlight slipped through the curtains of the guest suite, turning the pale walls gold and catching on the yellow and purple flowers in the small vase by the window. Outside, a bird was making an astonishing amount of noise for something so small.

Miriam woke first.

For a few moments she lay still beneath the thick plum-and-gold quilt, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the garden. Then she became aware of Eitan beside her, his dark hair untidy, one hand resting on top of the blanket.

Her husband.

The word still seemed too large to fit inside her head.

She turned towards him and smiled.

Eitan opened one eye.

“You’re looking at me,” he observed sleepily.

“I’m allowed. You’re my husband.”

“Ah.” He opened the other eye. “I hadn’t considered that particular advantage.”

She laughed, and he reached for her hand beneath the blanket.

“Good morning, Miriam.”

“Good morning, Eitan.”

They lay quietly for a little while, enjoying the peculiar happiness of having nowhere urgent to go and no one expecting them to be anything other than themselves. They were tired, their feet ached from the wedding, and somewhere among their belongings Eitan had apparently lost one of his socks. But they were together, and the world seemed to have become both larger and more manageable overnight.

A knock came at the door.

“Miriam? Eitan? It’s Raven. I have food, and I refuse to be held responsible if it gets cold.”

Eitan looked at Miriam.

“Should we be concerned that your friend has acquired the power to summon breakfast?”

“She has always had that power. She just usually uses it to summon biscuits.”

Miriam called, “Come in!”

The door opened, and Raven appeared carrying a large wicker hamper with both arms. She had evidently made an effort to look respectable for the morning, which, by Raven’s standards, meant a long black skirt, a loose dark-purple top, and a pair of earrings shaped like tiny silver moons. Her vivid purple hair was piled messily on top of her head.

“I bring sustenance,” she announced. “And before either of you asks, yes, there is enough for three people. I know how much your mother cooks, Miriam. I have learned to respect the appetite of this family.”

She set the hamper on the little table by the window and began unpacking it.

There were fresh rolls wrapped in a clean cloth, little jars of jam and honey, sliced cheese, butter, hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes and cucumbers, a small pot of olives, and a covered container of warm pastries. There was also a flask of tea and a second flask of coffee.

Miriam stared at the spread.

“Raven, this is enormous.”

“It’s a breakfast hamper. The clue is in the word hamper.”

“Did you make all this?”

“Some of it. Yael helped. The pastries are from the bakery. I have many talents, but I know when to delegate.”

Eitan had got out of bed and was straightening his shirt. He came over to inspect the provisions with the solemnity of a man evaluating a building’s foundations.

“Tea and coffee. Bread, eggs, vegetables, cheese. A very sound arrangement.”

Raven pointed at him. “I knew you’d appreciate the structural integrity of the breakfast.”

“I appreciate the fact that there are pastries.”

“Even better. The architect has approved the building.”

Miriam was laughing as she pulled a chair out for Raven.

“Sit down. Please. Have breakfast with us.”

Raven paused.

“Oh, no, I brought it for you. You’re newlyweds. You’re supposed to have a private, romantic breakfast while I go home and pretend I didn’t spend half the night worrying about whether you’d had enough blankets.”

“We have plenty of blankets,” Eitan assured her.

“And a very comfortable bed,” Miriam added, blushing a little.

Raven’s expression softened. “Good.”

“Please, Raven,” Miriam said again. “We want you to stay.”

Something in her voice made Raven stop making jokes. She looked from Miriam to Eitan, then slowly set down the cup she had been holding.

“All right,” she said quietly. “If you’re sure.”

“We’re sure,” Eitan said.

He moved another chair to the table.

So the three of them sat together in the morning sunlight, with tea steaming in their cups and the smell of warm pastries filling the room. Raven passed the jam to Miriam, Eitan poured the coffee, and for a few minutes they talked about ordinary things: the wedding, the dancing, Miriam’s great-aunt’s unexpectedly enthusiastic opinions about hair dye, and the fact that Eitan had been lifted onto a chair by a group of men who seemed to regard his continued survival as a matter of personal honour.

“I saw the photographs,” Raven said. “You looked absolutely terrified.”

“I was being carried above a crowd of people who were shouting and singing.”

“Yes. That is generally what happens at a Jewish wedding.”

“I had not previously appreciated how much of Orthodox marriage preparation concerns the ability to survive being hoisted into the air.”

Miriam laughed so hard she had to put down her tea.

Then, gradually, the conversation quietened.

Miriam looked at Raven across the table. The morning light caught the silver moth pendant at Raven’s throat, and for a moment Miriam remembered the woman who had sat beside her on a bus months ago, when she had been crying so quietly that she hoped no one would notice.

She remembered the café, and the long conversation in which she had first admitted how lonely she was. She remembered the underwear shop, the first evening with the coven, the nervous questions about love and sex, the conversations about whether she was allowed to want things for herself.

And she remembered the proposal, the wedding, and Raven standing in the garden with her friends, offering them a celebration that did not ask Miriam to stop being Jewish or Eitan to stop being Orthodox. It had simply made room for another part of their lives.

“Raven,” she said.

Raven glanced up. “That sounds serious.”

“It is a little serious.”

“Should I put down the pastry?”

“You can keep the pastry.”

“Good. Go on.”

Miriam reached across the table and took her hand.

“I wanted to tell you something while we were all here. Before we get swept up in everything that comes next.”

Eitan put his cup down. He had known she wanted to say this, though not exactly how she would say it. They had spoken about it the previous night, quietly, before falling asleep.

Miriam took a breath.

“You have a special place in my life. You know that. But I don’t think I’ve ever properly explained what that means to me.”

Raven’s usual quick reply did not come.

“When I met you,” Miriam continued, “I had begun to think that my life hadn’t really started. I thought I was waiting for someone to choose me. I thought that if I could just get married, then I would finally be allowed to be happy.”

She smiled a little sadly at her younger self.

“You helped me understand that I was already a person. That I was allowed to enjoy things, to have opinions, to be curious, to have friends, and to take up space in the world. You helped me stop treating every day as a test I was failing.”

Raven’s fingers tightened around hers.

“And then I met Eitan,” Miriam said, turning towards him. “And I was able to meet him as myself. Not as someone desperate to prove that she would make a suitable wife. I could actually ask myself whether I liked him, whether I trusted him, whether I wanted to build a life with him.”

“I am very glad you did,” Eitan said.

“So am I.”

Miriam looked back at Raven.

“And now we’re married. Eitan is my husband, and we’re going to build a home together. We’ll have our own traditions, and our own disagreements, and probably far too many discussions about where furniture ought to go.”

“Furniture placement is important,” Eitan said gravely.

“I married an architect. I knew what I was getting into.”

“You married a man who likes old buildings. I have made no promises about furniture.”

Raven gave a little laugh, but her eyes were shining.

Miriam squeezed her hand.

“What I want you to know is that getting married doesn’t mean I leave you behind. You aren’t a chapter of my life that I have finished reading. You’re my friend. You’re one of the people who helped me become the woman who could stand under the chuppah and say yes because she wanted to, not because she was afraid no one else would ever ask.”

For a moment, Raven could not speak.

Eitan leaned forward slightly.

“I wanted to say something too,” he said.

Raven looked at him, trying to smile. “Oh, dear. Is this where you produce a formal document?”

“I considered it.”

“Of course you did.”

“It began with the words, ‘Whereas the parties—’”

Miriam burst out laughing.

“Don’t encourage him!” Raven exclaimed, laughing too, though a tear had already escaped down her cheek.

Eitan smiled. Then his expression grew serious again.

“Raven, I know that you and Miriam see some things very differently. You and I don’t share all the same beliefs. But I know what you have done for her. I’ve heard the stories, and I’ve seen the way she speaks about you. I’ve seen the way she is with you.”

He paused, searching for the right words.

“You helped her recover a part of herself that she had nearly lost. And that part of her is the woman I fell in love with.”

Raven pressed her lips together.

“I don’t expect you to become someone different to fit into our lives,” he continued. “And I don’t want Miriam to become someone different either. We will have our home, our religious life, our responsibilities, and our own way of doing things. But there will be a place for you in that life, if you want it.”

He glanced at Miriam.

“We’ve talked about it. We want you to be able to come for meals, to meet our children if we are blessed with them, to argue with us, to tell us when we’re being foolish, and to bring pastries when you think we’re not eating properly.”

“I will absolutely do that,” Raven whispered.

“And if our children ask why their parents have a friend with purple hair and a moth tattoo, I suppose we’ll have to explain that she is a perfectly respectable person who makes questionable decisions about pastry quantities.”

“That is the most flattering thing anyone has ever said about me.”

“I’m glad. I had several alternatives, but they were less complimentary.”

Raven laughed, and then the laughter caught in her throat.

She looked down at their joined hands. A tear fell onto the back of Miriam’s fingers, and she hurriedly wiped it away with her free hand.

“Oh, don’t,” she said, trying to recover her usual tone. “I was doing so well. I came here with breakfast. I had a plan. I was going to make jokes about married people and then leave before anyone became sentimental.”

Miriam got up and came around the table to hug her.

Raven stood so quickly that her chair scraped across the floor. She wrapped both arms around Miriam and held her tightly, burying her face against Miriam’s shoulder.

For a little while she cried without trying to hide it.

“I am so happy for you,” she managed at last. “You have no idea how happy I am.”

“I think I have some idea,” Miriam whispered.

“No, you don’t. You were so sad when we met. You thought you were going to spend the rest of your life sitting in the waiting room while everyone else got to live. And now look at you.”

Raven pulled back enough to see her face.

“Look at you. You’re married. You’re happy. You have a husband who looks at you as if you’ve said something fascinating when all you’ve done is point out a particularly nice window.”

“It was a very nice window,” Eitan said.

Raven laughed through her tears.

“And you didn’t have to turn into someone else to get here,” she continued. “You didn’t have to become thinner, or quieter, or less curious, or less yourself. You found someone who likes you as you are.”

Miriam’s own eyes filled.

“Yes,” she said. “I did.”

Raven held her again, then reached out one arm to include Eitan in the embrace. He stood, looking momentarily uncertain about the precise etiquette of this situation, until Miriam took his hand and drew him closer.

The three of them ended up in an awkward, rather lopsided hug beside the breakfast table.

“This is not how I imagined my first morning as a married man,” Eitan observed.

“Would you like me to leave?” Raven asked, her voice muffled against Miriam’s shoulder.

“No.”

“Would you like me to stop crying on your wife’s dress?”

“That would be considerate. It is a very nice dress.”

Miriam laughed into Raven’s hair.

“It’s all right. I’m not wearing the dress anymore.”

“Excellent,” Raven said. “Then I have nothing to worry about.”

Eventually they separated, and Raven sat down again, wiping her eyes with a napkin. Eitan poured her more tea without comment. Miriam cut a pastry in half and put the larger piece on Raven’s plate.

Raven eyed it.

“Are you trying to feed me until I stop crying?”

“It’s a traditional Jewish technique,” Eitan said. “We apply it to most emotional situations.”

“Does it work?”

“Not reliably. But it gives everyone something to do with their hands.”

Raven took a bite.

“Well, it’s a good pastry.”

They ate slowly, talking about the future.

Miriam told Raven that she wanted her to visit their home, whenever they had one of their own. She wanted her to come for Shabbat meals, even if Raven preferred to arrive after the blessings and help wash dishes. She wanted to hear about Raven’s life, her friends, the coven, and whatever strange project she had become interested in that week.

Eitan added that he expected Raven to be honest with them, especially if she thought they were making a mistake.

“I reserve the right to say, ‘I told you so,’” Raven said.

“That right is universal,” Eitan replied. “Marriage does not abolish it.”

“And when you have children,” Raven said, looking at Miriam, “I want to be the friend who brings them books and teaches them that people can be different without being monsters.”

Miriam smiled. “I would like that very much.”

“Though I reserve the right to teach them some extremely bad jokes.”

“We shall discuss this when the time comes,” Eitan said.

“That sounds suspiciously like a parental veto.”

“It is an expression of concern.”

“Well, I’m their auntie now. You can’t stop me.”

The words came out lightly, without calculation. Then Raven went still, as if she had suddenly realized what she had said.

Miriam reached across the table and took her hand once more.

“Yes,” she said simply. “You are.”

Raven looked at her.

“You mean that?”

“I mean that.”

“And you won’t decide in six months that you’ve become a respectable married woman and I’m too embarrassing to invite over?”

“Raven.”

“I know, I know. I’m being ridiculous. But I need to ask.”

Miriam’s face softened.

“You don’t have to earn your place by being useful to me. You don’t have to rescue me every time I have a difficult day. You don’t have to dress differently, believe differently, or pretend to be Shira. I love you as my friend, Raven. I want you in my life because you’re you.”

Raven lowered her head. Another tear fell, followed by a small, helpless laugh.

“I really should have brought more napkins.”

Eitan passed her the entire stack.

“An architectural oversight on the part of the breakfast planners,” he said.

She took them gratefully.

For a while, no one said anything particularly profound. They discussed whether the remaining pastries could be taken home, whether Yael would want the hamper back, and whether Eitan’s mother would be scandalized or delighted to hear that the morning after the wedding had begun with Raven crying into the breakfast napkins.

“Both,” Miriam decided.

“Definitely both,” Eitan agreed.

When the tea was finished and the last pastry had been divided three ways, Raven stood and began gathering the empty jars.

Miriam caught her wrist gently.

“Leave them. Stay a little longer.”

Raven looked towards the garden, where the morning sun was warming the old stone wall. She had things to do, messages to answer, a life of her own waiting beyond the little house. But there was no need to hurry.

“All right,” she said. “A little longer.”

They moved their chairs closer to the window. Eitan sat beside Miriam, their shoulders touching, while Raven curled into the third chair with her tea. The hamper sat empty on the table, its purpose fulfilled.

Miriam rested her head briefly against her husband’s shoulder. He kissed the top of her head, a small, unceremonious gesture that made her smile.

Raven watched them, her eyes still red but her face peaceful.

She had helped Miriam find the courage to imagine a life in which she was not merely waiting to be chosen. She had watched her learn to ask questions, to take pleasure in small things, to become more fully herself. And now Miriam had found someone who loved that self—not as a reward for becoming perfect, but because it was hers.

Raven had no belief in magic that could guarantee a happy marriage. She could not promise that the years ahead would be easy, or that love would spare them grief, disagreements, or disappointment.

But she could sit with them that morning. She could bring breakfast. She could keep showing up.

And they had told her, without hesitation, that they wanted her to.

For Raven, that was a kind of wonder all by itself.

She took Miriam’s hand again, and this time, when her eyes filled, she didn’t bother apologizing.

Outside, Jerusalem was waking up around them. Inside, three friends sat together in the golden morning light, making room for the ordinary days that would follow the extraordinary one.

And for once, nobody was waiting for life to begin.

The apartment was on the third floor of an old Jerusalem building, with stone walls, slightly uneven floors, and a balcony just large enough for two chairs and a pot of rosemary.

Eitan loved it immediately.

Miriam was less certain.

“The kitchen is tiny,” she observed on their first visit.

“It’s an efficient use of space.”

“There’s barely room for two people.”

“That means we won’t lose each other.”

“Eitan, I cannot cook Shabbat dinner if I have to ask you to move every time I open a cupboard.”

He studied the kitchen thoughtfully.

“We could reorganize the shelves.”

Miriam looked at him.

He looked back.

“Or,” he conceded, “we could find a different apartment.”

She laughed, and he smiled, because making her laugh had become one of his favourite things.

They found another apartment two weeks later. It was a little larger, with two bedrooms, a proper kitchen, and a balcony overlooking a courtyard where an elderly man grew tomatoes in plastic buckets. The rent was manageable if they were careful, and the landlord seemed unlikely to object to Eitan’s green suits or Miriam’s collection of colourful mugs.

They signed the lease.

Then they stood in the empty living room, surrounded by boxes, and realized that they had acquired an entire home.

“Our home,” Miriam said quietly.

Eitan slipped his arm around her waist.

“Our home.”

She leaned against him. For a long moment they simply stood there, looking at the bare walls.

“Where do you think the bookshelf should go?” he asked.

Miriam groaned.

“We haven’t even moved in yet.”

“I’m only asking.”

“You’re already planning the furniture.”

“I am an architect. It would be irresponsible not to.”

She turned in his arms and kissed him.

It was a brief kiss, but it stopped his architectural deliberations completely.

“That,” she told him, “is what happens when you start talking about bookshelves before we’ve bought a sofa.”

“I shall endeavour to learn from this experience.”

“Good.”

She kissed him again, and this time he forgot to say anything at all.

Moving day was a triumph of optimism over logistics.

Miriam’s parents arrived with food, cleaning supplies, and strong opinions about the correct way to arrange a kitchen. Eitan’s parents arrived with more food, several bags of household necessities, and a small toolbox his father insisted was indispensable to married life.

“It contains everything you need,” Eitan’s father declared.

Eitan examined the toolbox.

“It doesn’t contain a spirit level.”

His father stared at him.

“You have a phone.”

“A phone is not a substitute for a spirit level.”

“You’re an architect. You know how to make things level.”

“That is precisely why I need a spirit level.”

Miriam’s mother, meanwhile, had discovered that the new couple owned only four dinner plates.

“Four?” she repeated.

“We thought we’d buy more when we needed them,” Miriam explained.

“And what happens when you have guests?”

“We invite three people.”

“And if you invite four?”

“We borrow plates.”

Her mother looked at her as if she had announced an intention to conduct the entire marriage on borrowed crockery.

By lunchtime, the kitchen contained enough food for a small community, the bedroom had acquired curtains, and Eitan’s father and Miriam’s mother were debating whether the living-room rug ought to be placed at an angle.

Raven arrived carrying a potted plant, a bag of biscuits, and a small framed print of an old Jerusalem doorway.

“I bring housewarming gifts,” she announced. “The plant is difficult to kill, the biscuits are easy to eat, and the picture is to remind Eitan that there are other architectural subjects besides the positioning of your furniture.”

Eitan took the picture and examined it appreciatively.

“That’s a beautiful doorway.”

“I know. I chose it for its artistic merit, not its capacity to make you rearrange the sofa.”

“That’s a relief.”

Miriam hugged Raven.

“Thank you. Come and see the kitchen.”

Raven peered inside.

“Oh, good. There’s enough room for two people.”

“Don’t start,” Miriam warned.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking that if you stand there and Eitan stands here, you can kiss without either of you blocking the refrigerator.”

Eitan, who had followed them into the kitchen, looked thoughtful.

“That is an important consideration.”

Miriam turned bright red.

Raven burst out laughing.

And so, with much teasing and more food than they could possibly eat, their married life began.

The first weeks were full of small discoveries.

Eitan learned that Miriam sang quietly while chopping vegetables, usually without realizing she was doing it. He discovered that she liked to read in bed, that she had strong opinions about the proper quantity of cinnamon in a cake, and that she became particularly animated when explaining something she had learned that day.

Miriam discovered that Eitan put his keys in a different place every evening and then looked for them the next morning with the solemn determination of an archaeologist investigating a lost civilization. He liked his tea very hot, read several books at once, and sometimes became so absorbed in drawing a building that he forgot to eat lunch.

She also discovered that he was not nearly as self-assured as his unusual clothes suggested.

One evening, a few weeks after they moved in, she found him standing in the living room, looking at a stack of unopened boxes.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

She tilted her head.

“Eitan.”

He sighed.

“I thought I would feel more certain about being married.”

Miriam went over to him.

“More certain how?”

He considered the question.

“I love you. I know I want to be here. I am happy that we married. But sometimes I look around and realize that we’re responsible for an entire household, and I wonder whether everyone else knows something I don’t.”

Miriam smiled with recognition.

“I thought that this morning when I burned the first batch of toast.”

“Did you?”

“I thought, ‘They’ve given me a husband and a kitchen, and now somebody expects me to know what to do with both of them.’”

Eitan laughed.

“What did you do?”

“I made more toast.”

“A sensible solution.”

“I thought so.”

She took his hand and led him to the sofa. They sat together, their shoulders touching.

“I think we’re allowed to learn,” she said. “We don’t have to wake up one morning and suddenly become people who know everything about marriage.”

“That is fortunate.”

“And if we get something wrong, we can talk about it.”

“Even if the thing we get wrong is where the bookshelf goes?”

“Especially then.”

He drew her closer, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

After a while, he kissed her hair.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For making it possible to admit that I’m frightened sometimes.”

Miriam lifted her head to look at him.

“You make it possible for me too.”

Then she kissed him, gently at first, until he turned towards her and kissed her back.

The boxes could wait.

As the months passed, they grew more comfortable with one another.

They learned the rhythms of their household: who was best at remembering appointments, who noticed when the milk was running low, who could be trusted to make a meal when both of them were tired. They developed little habits that neither would have thought to plan.

Eitan began bringing Miriam small things he found on his walks: a postcard of an old building, a book from a second-hand stall, a sprig of rosemary from a neglected garden. Miriam began leaving little notes tucked inside his books, usually with some affectionate comment about his taste in architecture.

One note, found inside a volume about Ottoman Jerusalem, read:

Dear husband, this building is very beautiful, but I still think you’re prettier. Please don’t let it go to your head.

Eitan carried that note in his wallet for weeks.

Their Shabbat meals became a happy mixture of family tradition and their own emerging customs. Miriam’s mother taught her recipes, sometimes with quantities that amounted to “a little of this and enough of that.” Eitan learned that Miriam liked to prepare the table early so she could enjoy the last hour before Shabbat without rushing. Miriam learned that Eitan liked to finish his learning before candle-lighting because he preferred to arrive at the table with his mind settled.

Sometimes they invited both families. Sometimes they invited a neighbour, a friend from work, or someone who had nowhere else to go that week.

And sometimes it was just the two of them.

Those Shabbatot were especially precious.

They would sit at their small table, candles glowing, the room quiet around them. Eitan would make kiddush, Miriam would serve the food, and they would talk long after the meal was finished. Sometimes they discussed Torah or politics. Sometimes they discussed a difficult situation at work. Sometimes they argued over whether a particular film had been unfair to its characters.

Once, Miriam disagreed with Eitan about something he had said while discussing a passage from Rambam. She expected him to defend his position, as people often did when challenged.

Instead, he listened, asked her to explain what she meant, and then sat quietly for a while.

“You may be right,” he said eventually.

Miriam blinked.

“Are you feeling all right?”

He laughed.

“I am capable of changing my mind.”

“I know. I just wanted to make sure I was present to witness it.”

He threw a napkin at her.

She laughed so hard that she nearly spilled her tea.

Later, when they were clearing the table, he came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. She leaned back against him, smiling as he kissed her cheek.

“You’re still thinking about the argument,” she said.

“I am.”

“Are you going to change your mind?”

“Possibly.”

“Good.”

“But I would like to point out that you were insufferably pleased with yourself.”

“That is because I was right.”

He kissed her again, this time on the lips.

“Insufferable,” he murmured.

“Your insufferable wife.”

“My favourite kind.”

She turned in his arms and kissed him once more.

They were learning that disagreement did not threaten their affection. Neither had to win every argument to feel secure. Neither had to pretend to agree to keep the peace.

It was a small thing, perhaps, but to Miriam it felt like discovering a new room inside a familiar house.

Raven became a regular visitor.

Sometimes she arrived on a Tuesday evening with biscuits and a story about someone in the coven who had made an unfortunate decision involving a second-hand wardrobe. Sometimes she came on a Thursday to help Miriam prepare for a complicated Shabbat meal, though her help often consisted of keeping Miriam company while the two of them talked.

Eitan liked having her around. He had discovered that Raven was genuinely interested in old buildings, provided no one expected her to be reverent about them, and that she could hold an argument without becoming offended when someone disagreed with her.

She also had an extraordinary capacity to notice when Miriam was tired.

“You’re doing that thing,” Raven announced one evening.

Miriam looked up from the vegetables she was chopping.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you decide that because you’re making a meal for people you love, you must produce enough food to feed the entire population of Jerusalem.”

“We have guests.”

“You have six guests. You have enough potatoes for a battalion.”

Eitan glanced into the kitchen.

“I did wonder why there were so many potatoes.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Miriam said.

“I am on your side. I am also on the side of reasonable potato quantities.”

Raven put down her bag and began peeling potatoes.

“Sit down for five minutes, Miriam. I’ll do these.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. That’s why I’m offering.”

Miriam hesitated, then handed her the knife.

She sat beside Eitan at the kitchen table, where he was reading. He reached across and took her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

“You’re allowed to let other people help you,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

She looked at him, then at Raven, who was peeling potatoes with exaggerated concentration.

“I’m learning.”

Eitan kissed her hand.

“Good.”

Raven looked over her shoulder.

“If you two are going to be adorable, at least do it somewhere that doesn’t interfere with my potato work.”

“We’re in our own kitchen,” Miriam pointed out.

“Yes, and it’s a very nice kitchen. I am simply requesting that the public displays of affection be scheduled around the vegetables.”

Eitan kissed Miriam’s cheek.

“Shall I put it in the household calendar?”

“Please do,” Raven said. “I need advance notice.”

Miriam laughed and leaned into her husband.

Neither of them made any effort to hide their affection. They had learned that Raven’s presence did not require them to become less obviously married, any more than their marriage required Raven to become less herself.

They kissed hello when she arrived. Eitan would put an arm around Miriam while she poured tea. Miriam sometimes rested her head against his shoulder while Raven told a story. Occasionally, when Raven was speaking, Eitan would lean over and kiss Miriam’s forehead, and she would smile at him without interrupting her friend.

Raven teased them mercilessly.

But she never asked them to stop.

In fact, one evening, after watching Eitan bring Miriam a cup of tea exactly the way she liked it, Raven sat back in her chair and said, with unusual seriousness, “I’m glad you two are like this.”

Miriam looked at her.

“Like what?”

“Affectionate. Comfortable with each other. Not embarrassed to show that you like one another.”

Eitan set the teapot down.

“Why would we be embarrassed?”

Raven gave a small shrug.

“Some couples act as if being married means they have to become a respectable unit of household administration. They stop flirting. They stop touching. They stop saying nice things to each other, except on birthdays and anniversaries.”

“That sounds exhausting,” Miriam said.

“It is. And people sometimes think that because love is real, you don’t need to express it anymore. As if the other person should simply know.”

Eitan looked at Miriam.

“I would prefer to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“That I love you.”

Her face softened.

“I love you too.”

He leaned over and kissed her. It was a simple, unselfconscious kiss, warm with the ease of a couple who had learned that affection did not have to be earned anew every time.

Raven watched them, smiling.

“See? That’s what I mean.”

“You do realize,” Eitan said, “that if you keep praising us, we shall become insufferable.”

“I assumed that had already happened.”

Miriam laughed and reached for his hand.

Their intimacy grew in much the same way as everything else in their marriage: through attention, honesty, and the gradual discovery that they could trust one another.

At first, Miriam had worried that she would not know what to do. She had spent so many years imagining marriage as a distant destination that she had never quite imagined the ordinary, private reality of being married to another person. She had been frightened that she would disappoint Eitan, or that he would discover she was less confident, less experienced, or less naturally romantic than he had expected.

But Eitan did not treat their closeness as a performance.

They talked. They laughed. They learned what made each other comfortable and what did not. They discovered that sometimes a kiss led to a long embrace, and sometimes it led to laughter because one of them had an elbow in the wrong place. There were evenings when they wanted to be close and evenings when they were too tired, and neither had to interpret the difference as a verdict on their marriage.

Eitan never made Miriam feel that she owed him affection, and Miriam gradually learned that she could express desire without worrying that she was being foolish or forward. She could initiate a kiss. She could tell him she wanted to sit close to him. She could ask for reassurance when she needed it.

And she could say, “Not tonight, I’m exhausted,” without fearing that he would be wounded or angry.

Sometimes he said the same thing.

Their physical intimacy became more relaxed, more confident, and more joyful as they came to know each other. They grew more comfortable with tenderness, with playful flirtation, with the private language of looks and gestures that belonged only to them. There were moments when Miriam caught herself reaching for Eitan simply because she wanted to touch him, without having first considered whether she was doing it correctly.

Those moments pleased her more than she could easily explain.

One evening, several months after the wedding, she found herself sitting beside him on the sofa while rain pattered against the balcony doors. He was reading; she was supposed to be reading, though she had spent the past ten minutes watching him instead.

“What?” he asked without looking up.

“Nothing.”

“You have been looking at me.”

“Perhaps I like looking at you.”

He lowered his book.

“That is a fortunate development.”

“Don’t become smug.”

“I shall endeavour to remain humble.”

She moved closer and kissed him.

He put the book aside, and when she drew back, he was smiling.

“What was that for?” he asked.

“Because I wanted to.”

He looked at her for a moment, and then his expression became very gentle.

“I like that answer.”

She rested her forehead against his.

“So do I.”

They sat together while the rain fell, talking quietly, kissing now and then, and letting the evening unfold without needing to decide what it ought to become.

Miriam thought about the woman she had been on the bus, crying because she believed she had been left behind by life. She wished she could reach back through time and tell that woman that happiness would not arrive all at once, like a door opening onto a finished room.

It would arrive in small things.

A hand held across a table. A cup of tea made correctly. A disagreement that ended in understanding. A kiss given simply because it was wanted. A husband who listened when she was frightened. A home in which she could be tired, silly, confident, uncertain, affectionate, and entirely herself.

She turned towards Eitan.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Always.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand what people mean when they say marriage is something you build.”

He closed his book completely.

“Go on.”

“I used to think the wedding was the great moment. The moment when everything changed and I finally became the person I was supposed to be.”

“And now?”

“Now I think the wedding was the beginning of a thousand little moments. Some wonderful, some ordinary, some difficult. And we have to keep choosing how we want to live them.”

Eitan was quiet for a moment.

“That sounds rather like architecture.”

She smiled.

“Of course you would say that.”

“A building is not made beautiful by the day the foundations are laid. It is made beautiful by what happens over time: the care taken in its construction, the people who live inside it, the way it changes as their needs change.”

He took her hand.

“I think a marriage is rather like that.”

Miriam leaned over and kissed him.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“And I like you.”

He smiled.

“That is even more reassuring.”

She laughed and settled against him, and he wrapped his arm around her.

By the time the first anniversary of their engagement approached, the apartment no longer looked like a new couple’s temporary arrangement.

The bookshelf had been installed—after considerable debate about its precise position. The kitchen had acquired more plates, thanks largely to their mothers. The balcony contained rosemary, basil, and one rather struggling pot of flowers Raven had brought them. The old Jerusalem doorway hung on the living-room wall.

There were photographs from the wedding on a shelf: Miriam in ivory, Eitan in forest green, their families smiling, Raven caught in the middle of a laugh, her purple hair bright even in the soft light.

Raven came over often enough that she had a favourite mug, a place to leave her coat, and a standing invitation to help herself to tea.

She also had a habit of arriving just as Miriam and Eitan had settled down together for the evening.

One Thursday, she let herself in after knocking and found them on the sofa, Miriam curled against Eitan with her feet tucked beneath her, his arm around her shoulders. They were looking at a book of old Jerusalem photographs, and Eitan had just kissed her temple.

Raven stopped in the doorway.

“Honestly. I leave you alone for three days, and you’re at it again.”

Miriam raised an eyebrow.

“At what?”

“Being married. It’s relentless.”

Eitan turned a page.

“We have been advised that it requires ongoing maintenance.”

“Well, someone ought to inspect the work.”

“Would you like tea?” Miriam asked.

“Yes, please.”

“Biscuits?”

“Obviously.”

Raven came in, hung up her coat, and went to the kitchen. She returned with her tea and settled into the armchair opposite them.

For a while they talked about ordinary things: Raven’s latest visit to the coven, a book Miriam was reading, a building Eitan had been asked to assess. Then the conversation drifted, as it often did, into something more personal.

Raven looked at them, her expression thoughtful.

“You know,” she said, “when we first met, I was worried that if you found what you wanted, you might feel you no longer needed me.”

Miriam sat up a little.

“Raven—”

“Let me finish. I know it sounds selfish. But I had become rather fond of you, and I didn’t know where I fitted into the life you were hoping for. I wondered whether, once you had a husband, there would be room for the strange atheist friend with the purple hair.”

Eitan set the book aside.

“There is room.”

“I know that now,” Raven said. “I can see it. But I wanted to tell you that it matters to me.”

Miriam reached across the space between them and took her hand.

“You didn’t help me so that I could stop needing you,” she said. “You helped me learn that my life could be bigger. Eitan is part of that life. So are you. They aren’t competing places.”

Eitan nodded.

“I would be very sorry if our marriage made you feel you had to stand outside it. We have a private life, of course, as every couple does. But that doesn’t mean our friendship with you is less real.”

Raven looked from one to the other.

“And you’re really not bothered when I come over and find you kissing?”

Miriam stared at her.

“Raven, you once sat with me while I cried over a pair of lavender underwear.”

“They were very pretty underwear.”

“You helped me talk about things I was too embarrassed to discuss with anyone else. Do you think I’m going to become embarrassed because my husband kisses me in front of you?”

“Well, I didn’t know whether marriage came with a new set of rules.”

“It comes with many new rules,” Eitan said. “Most of them concern laundry. This is not one of them.”

Raven laughed, and Miriam squeezed her hand.

“We love each other,” Miriam said. “We are affectionate. Sometimes we flirt. Sometimes we need to be alone together. None of that means we’re ashamed of you, or that you don’t belong here.”

Eitan leaned towards Miriam and kissed her cheek.

“Besides, I have been informed that I am required to maintain ongoing affection.”

“By whom?” Raven asked.

“My wife.”

“Ah. A binding authority.”

“An extremely binding authority,” Miriam agreed.

Raven laughed again, and then she grew quiet.

“Thank you,” she said.

Miriam got up from the sofa and crossed to hug her. Eitan rose too, joining them with an arm around his wife.

Raven hugged them both, smiling against Miriam’s shoulder.

She had once feared that happiness might make her irrelevant—that she had been useful during a crisis, but would have no place once the crisis ended.

Instead, she had watched Miriam grow into a woman who could love her husband freely, who could disagree with him without fear, who could enjoy her own life without waiting for someone else to grant permission. And Eitan had welcomed Raven not as a tolerated relic of Miriam’s past, but as someone whose friendship was part of the life they were building.

When they finally sat down again, Raven picked up her tea.

“I have one request.”

Miriam narrowed her eyes.

“That sounds dangerous.”

“When you eventually have children, please teach them that their aunt Raven is very wise, very respectable, and never wrong.”

“I can promise two of those things,” Eitan said.

“Which two?”

“That you are Raven, and that you are occasionally wrong.”

Miriam dissolved into laughter.

Raven threw a cushion at him.

And as the evening settled around them, the three of them returned to their tea, their biscuits, and their conversation. Eitan’s arm found its way around Miriam’s shoulders again. She leaned into him naturally, without wondering whether she ought to, and he kissed her hair as Raven began telling them another story.

Their home was not perfect. There were still arguments about household chores, forgotten shopping lists, tired evenings, and days when one of them needed quiet rather than conversation.

But there was room in it for affection, for disagreement, for friendship, for the people they were and the people they were still becoming.

And Raven, who had once helped Miriam understand that she was allowed to have a life before marriage, discovered that she had helped her find something else as well: a marriage in which there was room for love to grow, and room for the people who had helped make that love possible.

The dining room table, once a sanctuary for quiet conversations and carefully placed coasters, had recently become a site of tactical liberation. It started with a playful dare and a shared glass of wine, and it quickly evolved into a recurring preference for any surface that didn’t require them to walk all the way to the bedroom. There was a certain electric thrill in the precariousness of it all—the way a chair might slide an inch too far or the sudden, breathless realization that they were barely dressed and yet entirely consumed by one another.

They discovered that passion didn’t always need the slow build of a candlelit room; sometimes it thrived in the suddenness of a kitchen counter or the sturdy support of a hallway wall. They experimented with angles and rhythms they had never considered, moving beyond the predictable choreography of their early marriage. Miriam found a newfound confidence in her own desire, learning to guide Eitan’s hands and voice her needs with a clarity that surprised her. The act of intimacy had shifted from a goal to be achieved into a landscape to be explored, and they found themselves eager to map every inch of it.

“I think the laundry room is next on the list,” Eitan whispered one Tuesday afternoon, his breath warm against the nape of her neck.

Miriam laughed, leaning back into him. “You’re becoming quite the strategist, aren’t you?”

“Efficiency is key,” he teased, his hands sliding firmly around her waist. “Why waste time walking to the bedroom when the adrenaline is already here?”

The transition from curiosity to expertise happened in a series of quiet, focused revelations. For years, Miriam had viewed her own pleasure as a secondary, almost accidental, byproduct of intimacy—something that happened to her if the conditions were exactly right. But with Eitan, the dynamic shifted from passive hope to active exploration. They began to treat their bedroom, and eventually the rest of the house, as a laboratory of sensation.

She discovered that the own-weight of her body, which she had spent so long trying to minimize in the eyes of others, was actually her greatest asset in the bedroom. There was a specific, grounding power in the way she could press herself against him, and a particular angle—legs draped over his shoulders or her back arched against the headboard—that unlocked a visceral response she hadn’t known was possible. She learned that the “right” way wasn’t a standard set by a textbook, but a shifting target that changed depending on her mood and her breath.

More importantly, she learned the language of her own climax. She discovered that the slow, rhythmic build was wonderful, but that a sudden, sharp increase in pressure or a specific, insistent friction against her clitoris was the real key to the lock. There were afternoons when they spent an hour simply figuring out the exact millimeter of movement that sent her over the edge, turning the act of orgasm into a collaborative art project. For the first time in her life, Miriam wasn’t guessing what she liked; she was documenting it.

“You’re making a very focused face,” Eitan murmured one rainy afternoon, his voice a low vibration against her skin.

Miriam didn’t open her eyes; she was too busy charting the surge of heat building in her core. “I’m calculating,” she gasped, shifting her hips just a fraction to the left to lock into the sensation. “Stay. Right. There.”

The sofa had become their favorite piece of architecture. It was less a place for sitting and more a staging ground for the kind of frantic, breathless gravity that pulled them together the moment they crossed the threshold of the apartment. Miriam was perched atop Eitan, her eyes closed and her breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches, her hands anchored firmly to his chest as she moved in a slow, rhythmic grind that felt like it was rewriting the laws of physics. Every shift of her hips was a calculated request, and Eitan was answering it with a low, guttural groan, his fingers digging into the soft curve of her thighs.

The sound of the front door unlocking was a distant melody, completely eclipsed by the thrumming of their hearts. There was the familiar click-clack of boots on the hardwood, and then the casual, rhythmic sound of a coat being hung on the hook.

“I’m home!” Raven’s voice drifted in from the hallway, breezy and unsuspecting. “I brought those weird lemon biscuits from the bakery on the corner!”

Miriam didn’t freeze. She didn’t scramble for a blanket or gasp in horror. Instead, she let out a long, shuddering exhale and leaned forward, pressing her forehead against Eitan’s. They both knew the choreography of Raven’s arrivals; they knew she operated on a frequency of radical acceptance that rendered modesty obsolete. As Raven strolled into the living room, she didn’t even blink at the sight of them—Miriam, flushed and breathless, riding her husband in the middle of the afternoon.

“Oh, good. You’re still practicing,” Raven remarked, her tone as casual as if she were commenting on the weather. She didn’t look away, nor did she stare with prurient interest; she simply acknowledged them as part of the room’s current atmosphere. Without pausing, she pivoted toward the kitchen. “I’m going to put the kettle on. Do you want the lemon ones now, or should I leave them on the counter for when you’ve… finished the set?”

The air in the room remained thick with heat and the scent of skin, and for the first time in her life, Miriam felt no urge to hide. The usual instinct to cover up, to apologize for the audacity of her desire, had simply vanished, replaced by a humming confidence that radiated from the base of her spine. She didn’t pull away; instead, she shifted her weight, arching her back and letting out a low, guttural moan that echoed through the open floor plan. Eitan’s grip on her thighs tightened, his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made the rest of the world blur into insignificance.

From the kitchen, the rhythmic clink of a teaspoon against porcelain provided a steady beat to their movement. Raven was a calm, violet presence in the periphery, leaning casually against the counter as she waited for the kettle to whistle. She didn’t look away, but there was no voyeuristic hunger in her gaze; instead, there was a quiet, supportive appreciation, as if she were watching a friend finally master a difficult piece of music. To Raven, this wasn’t a performance or a scandal—it was simply the sound of two people who had finally stopped asking for permission to exist.

The friction of their bodies grew more urgent, a frantic search for a peak that seemed to keep receding. Miriam leaned forward, her breasts brushing against Eitan’s chest, their breathing synchronized in a ragged, desperate harmony. She could hear the soft hiss of steam from the kettle and the rustle of Raven’s oversized cardigan, sounds that should have been distracting but instead acted as anchors, grounding her in the reality that she was seen, she was wanted, and she was safe.

As the tension peaked, Miriam let out a sharp, breathless cry, her head falling back to expose her throat to the dim light of the living room. Eitan followed her into the abyss, his body shuddering against hers in a final, crashing wave of release. They stayed locked together for several long minutes, the only sound in the apartment the heavy, synchronized thrumming of their hearts and the distant, cheerful chirp of a bird outside the window.

“Right,” Raven said, her voice cutting through the silence with a playful, matter-of-fact brightness. “The tea is steeped, and I’ve decided the lemon biscuits are definitely the superior choice today.”

The transition from the heat of the sofa to the coolness of the kitchen was a slow, drifting process. There was no frantic scramble for clothes, no lingering sense of shame to scrub away. Instead, they moved through the apartment in a haze of shared contentment, dressing in the softest, most uncomplicated garments they owned. By the time they reached the kitchen, Eitan was in a pair of oversized grey flannel trousers and Miriam was enveloped in a silk pajama set the color of a bruised plum, the fabric sliding over her skin like a cool caress. They looked less like adults and more like two children playing house in a world they had finally learned how to navigate.

Raven didn’t look up from the teapot as they entered, but her smile was audible in the way she hummed a little tune. The kitchen was filled with the golden, domestic light of late afternoon, and the scent of lemon and Earl Grey had replaced the musk of their exertion. Miriam slid into a chair, her bare feet brushing against Eitan’s ankle, and felt a profound sense of alignment. There was something subversive and liberating about this specific tableau: the atheist friend, the husband, and the wife, all gathered in their sleepwear, stripped of the social armor they usually wore to face the world.

“The lemon biscuits are an acquired taste,” Raven announced, sliding a ceramic plate toward the center of the table. “They taste like a very sophisticated cleaning product, but the texture is divine.”

Eitan reached for one, glancing at Miriam. “Sophisticated cleaning products are my favorite flavor of the week.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Miriam laughed, though she reached for a biscuit too. As she bit into the citrusy sweetness, she looked at Raven. The purple hair was a bit messy now, and Raven was wearing a t-shirt that looked like it had survived several wars with a washing machine, but she looked entirely at peace. It occurred to Miriam that the most radical thing about their friendship wasn’t the lack of shared faith or the unconventional style, but the absolute absence of performance. Here, in the sanctuary of their kitchen, nobody had to be the ‘perfect’ anything.
Miriam discovered she was pregnant on a Tuesday morning, standing in the bathroom in her pyjamas and staring at a small test as though it had just announced that she was going to be appointed chief rabbi.

She looked at it.

She looked at the instructions.

She looked at it again.

Then she sat down on the closed toilet lid.

“Oh,” she whispered.

She had imagined this moment many times, though never quite like this. Sometimes, in her younger years, she had imagined it as the triumphant conclusion to years of shidduch disappointments: proof that she had finally arrived at the life she had wanted. But that was before Eitan, before the little apartment, before she had learned that her life did not need to wait for a particular milestone to become worthwhile.

Now the feeling was different.

She was already happy. She already had a home and a husband who loved her. And now, somehow, there was going to be a child.

A child who would be theirs.

She put a hand over her mouth, and tears came to her eyes.

Then she called out, “Eitan?”

From the kitchen came the sound of a cupboard opening.

“Yes, my love?”

“Could you come here, please?”

There was something in her voice that made him put down whatever he was holding. She heard his footsteps approaching, followed by a knock on the bathroom door.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes. I think so. Could you just come in?”

He opened the door and found her sitting on the toilet lid, holding the test in both hands.

For a moment he simply stared at it.

Then he looked at her.

“Miriam?”

She nodded.

“I think we’re going to have a baby.”

His face changed so quickly that she would remember it for the rest of her life. First came astonishment, then a kind of disbelieving joy, and finally a tenderness so profound that he seemed unable to find words for it.

“Really?”

She laughed through her tears.

“That is what the test appears to be suggesting.”

He knelt in front of her.

“Are you sure?”

“No, Eitan, I took it because I wanted to see whether it would recommend a new bookshelf.”

He laughed, and then, unexpectedly, his eyes filled too.

“Oh, Miriam.”

He took her hands, and she leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

They stayed like that for a long time.

Eventually Eitan said, “May I hug you?”

She laughed at the question, because he was already holding both her hands and looking at her as though she were the most precious thing in the world.

“Yes, you may hug me.”

He wrapped his arms around her, and she held him tightly.

“We’re going to be parents,” he whispered.

“We are.”

“I am going to be someone’s father.”

“That is generally how it works.”

“I know how it works.”

“Do you? Because you look rather surprised.”

“I am surprised. I have been given a great deal of responsibility.”

Miriam pulled back to look at him.

“We’ll learn.”

He smiled at her, remembering their conversation about the first weeks of marriage, the boxes, the burned toast, and the bookshelf that had somehow become a symbol of all the things they were allowed to learn together.

“Yes,” he said. “We will.”

Then he kissed her, carefully and happily, and Miriam felt the future opening before them—not as a test she had to pass, but as another part of the life they were building.

They agreed to tell their parents that evening.

Miriam’s mother had invited them for dinner, and she was in the kitchen when they arrived, wearing an apron and giving instructions to Miriam’s father about a dish he was not currently cooking.

“You’re late,” she said, turning around. “Not terribly late, but late enough that I was about to send your father to see whether the bus had swallowed you.”

“We came by taxi,” Eitan said.

“Then I would have sent him to see whether the taxi had swallowed you.”

Miriam’s father looked up from the table.

“I think the taxi would have been obliged to give us an explanation.”

Miriam smiled at Eitan.

“Should we tell them?”

He took her hand.

“Yes.”

Her mother immediately stopped what she was doing.

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

“No, Ima,” Miriam said quickly. “Nothing is wrong.”

“Then why are you both looking at me like that?”

Miriam took a breath.

“We have some news.”

Her father put down his book.

Eitan’s hand tightened gently around hers.

“We’re expecting a baby,” Miriam said.

For one extraordinary second, nobody moved.

Then her mother made a sound that was half laugh and half sob, wiped her hands on her apron, and hurried across the kitchen to embrace her daughter.

“Oh, Miriam! My darling girl!”

Miriam disappeared into her mother’s arms.

Her father stood up so quickly that his chair scraped against the floor.

“A baby?”

“Yes, Abba.”

He looked at Eitan, who was grinning helplessly.

“A baby,” her father repeated, as if confirming an important historical fact.

“That is the current understanding,” Eitan said.

Miriam’s father embraced them both, then stepped back and looked at his daughter with shining eyes.

“Baruch Hashem,” he said softly.

Her mother was already asking questions.

“Have you spoken to the doctor? How are you feeling? Are you tired? Have you been eating properly? Do you need anything? I can make soup. You should have soup.”

“I had lunch, Ima.”

“What did you have?”

“An omelette.”

“An omelette is not soup.”

“I didn’t know the baby had expressed a preference.”

Her father laughed so hard that he had to sit down again.

Her mother gave Miriam a look of affectionate reproach, then hugged her once more.

“You’re going to be a mother,” she whispered.

Miriam felt the words settle inside her.

“Yes,” she said. “I am.”

Later that evening, they phoned Eitan’s parents. His mother cried almost immediately, his father declared that he had always suspected his son would eventually do something sensible, and Eitan’s sister Tzipora demanded to know whether she was now officially entitled to spoil her future niece or nephew.

“You were entitled to spoil them before,” Eitan said.

“Yes, but now I have a legitimate reason.”

“You had a legitimate reason when they were imaginary?”

“I was practising.”

By the time the calls were over, both families had offered congratulations, prayers, food, practical assistance, and several suggestions about names.

“We haven’t even had the first appointment yet,” Miriam protested.

“There’s no harm in thinking,” her mother replied.

“There is when you’ve produced seventeen names before dessert.”

“Only seventeen?” Eitan’s mother said. “I must be losing my touch.”

Miriam looked at her husband.

“We’re going to need a bigger notebook.”

He kissed her cheek.

“We’re going to need several.”

Raven found out two days later.

Miriam had invited her over for tea, and Raven arrived carrying a bag of biscuits and complaining about a woman at the coven who had become convinced that she could communicate with houseplants.

“I told her that if my basil could communicate, it would be asking me to water it more often,” Raven said, taking off her coat. “Anyway, what have you been doing?”

Miriam and Eitan exchanged a glance.

Raven narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, no. That look.”

“What look?” Eitan asked.

“The look couples get when they have news and are deciding which one of them is going to say it. I’ve seen it before. It usually means someone has bought a house, changed jobs, or adopted a dog without consulting me.”

Miriam laughed.

“We haven’t adopted a dog.”

“Good. I like dogs, but I would have wanted to inspect it first.”

She sat down and reached for her tea.

Miriam took a breath.

“Raven, we’re having a baby.”

Raven froze with the teacup halfway to her mouth.

Then she lowered it very carefully onto the table.

“You’re what?”

“We’re having a baby,” Miriam repeated.

Raven stared at her.

Then she stared at Eitan.

Then she looked back at Miriam.

“Oh, my goodness.”

Her eyes filled so quickly that Miriam began laughing.

“Oh, don’t you dare,” Raven said, pointing at her. “I have only just arrived. I haven’t even eaten a biscuit.”

She stood up and went straight to Miriam, wrapping her in a fierce hug.

“Oh, Miriam.”

Miriam hugged her back.

“I’m happy too.”

“I know you are. I can see it. Look at your face!”

Raven drew back and held Miriam at arm’s length, studying her.

“You’re going to have a little person. A whole person. A person who will live in your house and ask questions and probably put things in the wrong places.”

“That last part may come from Eitan,” Miriam said.

“I heard that,” Eitan replied.

Raven hugged Miriam again.

“I am so happy for you.”

She was crying openly now, and she made no effort to disguise it. Miriam stroked her back, smiling through her own tears.

After a moment, Raven pulled away and wiped her face.

“Right. I have several important questions.”

Miriam looked wary.

“Such as?”

“Have you thought about how you’re going to arrange the furniture? Because the baby will need space. Also, you mustn’t let Eitan design the nursery without supervision.”

Eitan looked offended.

“I am perfectly capable of designing a nursery.”

“Of course you are. But you will probably want to build a scale model first.”

“I had considered a floor plan.”

Raven pointed at him triumphantly.

“See?”

Miriam laughed until she had to lean back against the sofa.

Then Raven’s expression softened again.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine, actually. A little tired sometimes, but otherwise fine.”

“Good. And if that changes, you’ll tell us?”

“Yes.”

Raven looked at Eitan.

“She’ll tell you?”

“She says she will.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Eitan smiled.

“I shall do my best to trust her.”

“Excellent. I shall do my best to trust both of you, though I make no promises.”

She sat down again and reached for a biscuit.

For the next hour, she asked about appointments, offered to accompany Miriam to one if she wanted company, and told them about the excellent second-hand baby clothes shop she had discovered while looking for a present for a friend’s child.

“You don’t need to buy anything yet,” Miriam said.

“I know. I am not buying anything yet. I am merely conducting research.”

“Research?”

“Someone has to ensure that your child doesn’t spend its entire infancy dressed like a tiny accountant.”

Eitan looked thoughtful.

“A tiny accountant could be very useful.”

Raven threw a cushion at him.

Miriam’s pregnancy turned out to be remarkably straightforward.

She had the ordinary early tiredness, a few mornings when certain smells made breakfast less appealing, and occasional moments when she found herself crying over things that would not ordinarily have moved her to tears. Once, she wept because the bakery had run out of the particular rolls she wanted, then laughed at herself when Eitan returned from another bakery carrying an assortment of alternatives.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” she told him.

“You’re disappointed about the rolls.”

“But it’s ridiculous.”

“Perhaps. But you wanted those rolls.”

He sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders.

“We can try again tomorrow.”

She sniffed.

“You don’t think I’m being silly?”

“I think you’re having a difficult moment. I don’t need to judge it.”

She leaned against him.

“You are annoyingly good at this.”

“I have been studying.”

“From whom?”

“You.”

That made her cry again, though this time she was smiling.

At her appointments, the medical staff were reassuring, and she felt well enough to continue her usual routines, with sensible adjustments as her pregnancy progressed. She took advice about what she could safely do, rested when she needed to, and found that most days she felt very much like herself.

The baby grew. Her clothes gradually became less comfortable. She began to notice small changes in her body with a mixture of wonder, amusement, and occasional impatience.

Eitan noticed everything.

He noticed when she was tired before she admitted it. He noticed when she had been standing for too long. He noticed when she paused to rest her hand on her belly, as if saying hello to someone who had not yet learned how to answer.

He also noticed that she was perfectly capable of doing most things herself.

This did not prevent him from trying to help with nearly all of them.

One Saturday evening, Miriam was reaching for a saucepan when Eitan appeared beside her.

“Allow me.”

She looked at him.

“Eitan, it’s a saucepan.”

“I can see that.”

“I have lifted saucepans before.”

“I am aware of your extensive experience with cookware.”

She held the saucepan out of his reach.

“I am pregnant, not made of glass.”

He stopped immediately.

“I know.”

She saw the concern on his face and softened.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to take care of me.”

“I am trying not to become the sort of husband who believes that pregnancy has made his wife incapable of lifting a saucepan.”

“Then you’re doing very well.”

He smiled.

“May I carry the shopping, at least?”

“Yes.”

“And take the rubbish downstairs?”

“Yes.”

“And—”

“Eitan.”

He stopped.

She took his hand.

“If I need help, I will ask for it. I promise. I know my body, and I know how to listen to it. You don’t have to watch me every second.”

He looked at her for a moment.

“You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

“That is a dangerous habit.”

She kissed him.

He kissed her back, then rested his forehead against hers.

“I want to take good care of you,” he said quietly. “Sometimes I don’t know how to do that without worrying.”

Miriam’s expression softened.

“Then take care of me by trusting me. And by being here. And by bringing me tea when I ask.”

“That seems manageable.”

“And by kissing me.”

“That seems considerably more enjoyable.”

She laughed and kissed him again.

From the doorway came a voice.

“I see the saucepan negotiations have concluded successfully.”

Raven stood there holding a bag of groceries.

Miriam closed her eyes.

“How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to hear that Eitan is being instructed in the fundamentals of marriage.”

“I was already married,” Eitan protested.

“Yes, but apparently you needed remedial training.”

Raven put the groceries down and came over to kiss Miriam’s cheek.

“How are you feeling?”

“Very well.”

“Good. Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you.”

“Excellent. Then I shall sit down and let you tell me what you’ve been reading.”

Miriam smiled.

“That is exactly what I need.”

Raven settled at the kitchen table, and Eitan went back to preparing dinner. A few minutes later, he brought Miriam a cup of tea without being asked.

She looked at it, then at him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He kissed her forehead as he passed.

Raven watched them with a small smile, but said nothing.

She understood that caring for Miriam did not mean treating her as helpless. Sometimes it meant carrying a bag. Sometimes it meant making tea. Sometimes it meant sitting nearby while Miriam did exactly what she wanted to do.

And sometimes it meant remembering that Miriam was still Miriam: intelligent, capable, occasionally stubborn, and entirely entitled to make her own decisions.

As the months went by, the apartment changed around them.

The spare room gradually became a nursery. They painted the walls a warm cream, chose curtains with tiny yellow and purple flowers, and found a sturdy wooden cot that Eitan assembled with the careful concentration of a man restoring an ancient monument.

Miriam watched him from the doorway.

“Do you think the baby will appreciate the craftsmanship?”

“I hope so.”

“The baby will probably appreciate being fed more.”

“Both can be important.”

She smiled and came to stand beside him, one hand resting on her belly.

They had not yet decided on every detail, but they agreed that the room should be comfortable, cheerful, and not too crowded. Miriam wanted a comfortable chair where she could sit with the baby. Eitan wanted shelves for books. Raven wanted to ensure there was room for the enormous number of picture books she intended to buy.

“You are not filling the nursery with books before the child can hold its own head up,” Miriam told her.

“I am establishing a literary environment.”

“You’re establishing a fire hazard.”

“I shall establish it in moderation.”

Eitan looked up from the cot.

“I support the books.”

“Of course you do,” Miriam said. “You would put a library in the bathroom if I let you.”

“That is an excellent use of otherwise underutilized space.”

Raven stared at him.

“I adore you both, but you are the strangest married couple I know.”

“We shall take that as a compliment,” Eitan said.

“You should.”

When the cot was finally assembled, the three of them stood looking at it.

The room was quiet. Sunlight fell across the little bed, and the curtains stirred in the breeze from the open window.

Miriam felt a sudden, unexpected rush of emotion.

“This is really happening,” she whispered.

Eitan put his arm around her.

“Yes.”

“There will be someone sleeping here.”

“Yes.”

“Someone who will be ours.”

He kissed her temple.

“Someone we will have to learn how to love in all the ways they need.”

Miriam leaned into him.

“I hope we’ll be good at it.”

“We will make mistakes,” he said. “And then we will learn.”

Raven stood beside them, unusually quiet.

Finally, she said, “I think this child is going to be very lucky.”

Miriam turned towards her.

“Because it will have a wonderful nursery?”

“Because it will have two parents who are already asking how to love it well. And because it will have an aunt who intends to provide an entirely unreasonable number of books.”

Miriam laughed, wiping at her eyes.

“That too.”

Raven hugged her gently, careful of her belly.

Then she hugged Eitan.

“You’re going to be a father,” she told him.

He smiled, looking a little overwhelmed.

“So I keep being informed.”

“And you’re going to do wonderfully.”

He looked at her, then nodded.

“Thank you, Raven.”

By the final months, Miriam had become accustomed to being pregnant, though she had less patience with some of the practical inconveniences.

Getting comfortable at night required negotiation with several pillows. Her favourite shoes had become difficult to put on. She could no longer reach the bottom of the laundry basket without an elaborate strategy.

Eitan developed a habit of asking whether she wanted help before offering it.

Raven developed a habit of asking whether Eitan had remembered to ask whether she wanted help.

“You’re both making me feel as though I’m running a small government,” Miriam complained one evening.

“You are running a small government,” Raven said. “There are two ministers, a nursery, and a highly anticipated new citizen.”

“And a great deal of paperwork,” Eitan added, putting an appointment card on the table.

Miriam pointed at him.

“Don’t you start.”

He laughed and sat beside her, putting his arm around her shoulders.

She was tired that evening, and she let herself lean against him. His hand rested lightly on her belly, where the baby occasionally made its presence known with a firm little movement.

He looked down in surprise.

“Was that—?”

“Yes.”

A moment later, the baby moved again.

Eitan’s whole face changed.

“Hello,” he whispered.

Miriam watched him, her heart full.

“You know the baby can’t understand you yet.”

“I know.”

“You keep talking to it.”

“I am establishing a relationship.”

She laughed softly.

“Of course you are.”

He bent and kissed her belly through her dress, then kissed her lips.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Good. Tired, but good.”

“Would you like me to make dinner?”

“Yes, please.”

“Would you like me to bring you anything first?”

She considered.

“A glass of water. And then you can sit with me for five minutes before you cook.”

He brought her the water, sat down, and drew her close.

For those five minutes, he did nothing except hold her.

It was a small act, but Miriam had come to understand how much love could live inside small acts. She did not need to be rescued from her own life. She needed a husband who listened, who cared, who could offer help without taking away her independence, and who was willing to learn the difference.

Eitan was learning.

And she was learning to let herself be cared for without feeling that she had surrendered her competence.

When Raven arrived later that evening, she found them sitting together on the sofa, Miriam tucked against Eitan’s side and his hand resting on her belly.

She stopped in the doorway.

“Oh, look at you.”

Miriam opened one eye.

“What now?”

“Nothing. You’re just very sweet.”

“We are sitting on a sofa.”

“Very sweetly.”

Eitan smiled.

“Would you like tea?”

“Yes. And I want you to know that I am taking mental notes. When I eventually become an elderly witch with a house full of cats, I shall tell people that I once knew a couple who were disgustingly happy.”

“You don’t have to wait until you’re elderly,” Miriam said. “You can tell them now.”

Raven came over and sat beside her, taking her hand.

“How are you, really?”

Miriam answered honestly. “Well. Tired sometimes. A little impatient to meet the baby. But happy.”

“Good.”

“And if I need help, I’ll ask.”

“I know,” Raven said. “You’ve told me approximately four hundred times.”

“Then why do you keep asking?”

“Because you are allowed to change your mind. And because asking whether you’re all right is not the same as deciding you’re incapable.”

Miriam looked at her, then smiled.

“That’s fair.”

Raven squeezed her hand.

“Besides, I’m going to worry. It’s part of my job description.”

“Who gave you that job?”

“I appointed myself.”

Eitan returned with the tea and sat down beside them.

“Does this position come with a salary?”

“Yes,” Raven said. “Payment is in biscuits, emotional intimacy, and the right to spoil the baby.”

“An extravagant arrangement.”

“I am worth it.”

Miriam laughed and leaned back against Eitan, while Raven settled comfortably beside her.

Outside, evening descended over Jerusalem. The apartment glowed with lamplight, the nursery stood ready down the hall, and the three friends talked until the tea was gone.

They were excited, nervous, and full of questions about the person who would soon join their family. Neither Eitan nor Miriam believed that loving a child would make them perfect parents. They knew there would be sleepless nights, difficult decisions, and moments when they would have to learn as they went.

But they had already begun to practise the things they hoped to give their child: patience, honesty, kindness, the willingness to admit uncertainty, and the confidence that accepting help was not a failure.

And Raven, who had helped Miriam discover that she was allowed to build a life of her own, was delighted to find that the life they had built had room for her too.

As she left that night, she paused at the front door and looked back.

“Call me if you need anything,” she said.

Miriam raised an eyebrow.

“If I need anything, I will ask.”

“Yes, yes. I know. You’re very capable.”

“I am.”

“And stubborn.”

“Also true.”

Raven smiled.

“Good night, you two. And good night to the little person who has not yet learned that its parents are completely ridiculous.”

Eitan kissed Miriam’s cheek.

“We shall endeavour to improve.”

“Don’t,” Raven said. “You’d only disappoint me.”

She disappeared down the stairs, laughing.

Miriam closed the door and turned towards her husband. He drew her into his arms, and she rested her head against his chest.

“She’s going to be a wonderful aunt,” she murmured.

“She already is.”

Miriam looked up at him.

“And you’re going to be a wonderful father.”

He kissed her gently.

“I hope so.”

“You will be.”

He held her close, his hand warm against her back.

They stood together for a little while in the quiet apartment, with the nursery waiting down the hall and their child’s future still a mystery.

There was no need to know everything yet.

They had time to learn.

And they would learn together.

The saucepan had been the first casualty of Miriam’s newfound appetite; the kitchen table, usually a sanctuary for tea and intellectual debate, was now frequently used as a convenient surface for shedding clothes. It had happened gradually, then all at once. The hormones of the second trimester had arrived not as a wave of nausea, but as a scorching, insistent fire that seemed to radiate from the very center of her being. Every brush of Eitan’s hand against her lower back, every low-muttered word in her ear, felt like an electric current snapping through her skin.

Their bedroom, once a place of gentle routines and quiet affection, had transformed into a theater of wild, unbridled vigor. Miriam discovered a version of herself that was not cautious or considerate of social expectations, but demanding and hungry. The passion was visceral and urgent, driven by a physical longing that felt almost spiritual in its intensity. Eitan, initially bewildered by the sudden shift in her libido, had quickly risen to the occasion, meeting her fervor with a surprising, athletic enthusiasm of his own. They explored new rhythms and bolder territories, their intimacy evolving into something raw and exhilaratingly honest.

“I think,” Eitan gasped one rainy Tuesday afternoon, pinned against the bedroom door, “that we have successfully moved past the ‘gentle’ phase of this pregnancy.”

Miriam, her breath hitching, pulled him closer, her eyes dark with a hunger that felt entirely new. “Who told you that we had to be gentle?”

He laughed, a ragged sound of surrender, and swept her up, his movements sure and urgent. In those moments, the weight of her belly wasn’t a burden or a medical condition to be managed, but a focal point of a deep, grounding connection. The passion wasn’t just about the physical release; it was a reclamation of her body, a way of saying I am here, I am alive, and I am desired.

The boundaries of their shared world had shrunk to the size of a skin-to-skin contact, and the clock no longer dictated their movements. There were mornings when the tea grew cold on the nightstand because the simple act of waking up—the brush of a shoulder, the scent of sleep—triggered a landslide of need. They moved through the apartment like two magnets constantly snapping together, experimenting with gravity and geometry to find angles that worked with her changing silhouette. Some positions were discoveries of comfort; others were daring explorations of how much pressure they could apply before the baby decided to protest with a well-timed kick.

The thrill, however, had migrated beyond the bedroom walls. It began with a daring afternoon in the secluded corner of the botanical garden, shielded by a weeping willow and a sudden, torrential downpour. The risk of discovery—the distant sound of gravel crunching under a stranger’s boot—only served to sharpen the intensity. There was a visceral electricity to the danger, a feeling of stealing something from the world that usually demanded they be modest and careful. They found a similar, breathless urgency in the dimly lit corridor of the apartment building during a neighbor’s loud party, their bodies pressed against the cool plaster of the wall, hearts hammering in a synchronization of panic and pleasure.

For Miriam, these encounters were a liberation. For years, she had viewed her body as a project to be managed, a set of dimensions to be reduced. Now, in the heat of these spontaneous moments, she felt expansive. She wasn’t a set of statistics or a candidate for a shidduch; she was a force of nature, a woman whose desire was as vast and undeniable as the life growing inside her.

One evening, as they finally collapsed back into the quiet of their living room, Eitan looked at her with a mixture of awe and exhaustion. He reached out, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb.

“I feel like I’m barely keeping up with you,” he admitted, his voice raspy.

“That is because you are playing a game where the rules change every hour,” Miriam replied, her voice a low, satisfied hum.

The dynamic of their household had shifted into something fluid and permissive. It wasn’t just that the boundaries had blurred; they had been intentionally dismantled. Raven, who had become a permanent fixture in their domestic life, was no longer just a guest or a confidante; she had become a witness and a participant in their exploration. There was a profound trust between the three of them, a shared understanding that Miriam’s pleasure was a priority that sometimes exceeded Eitan’s physical stamina.

There were afternoons when the heat of their encounter would leave Eitan breathless and spent, his muscles trembling with the effort of keeping pace with Miriam’s intensifying needs. In those moments, when he could do no more but watch with a devoted, tired smile, Raven would step in. With Eitan’s quiet consent—a nod or a soft word of agreement—Raven would move closer. Her touch was different from Eitan’s; where he was warmth and pressure, she was precision and curiosity.

Miriam would close her eyes, drifting between the two of them, feeling the contrast of their affections. Raven’s hands were steady, her mouth intuitive, navigating the geography of Miriam’s desire with a focused intensity that drove the tension toward a breaking point. It was a collaborative act of care, a circle of intimacy where Eitan’s exhaustion was not a failure, but a space for Raven to provide. When the release finally came, it was an explosion that left Miriam shaking, anchored to the world only by the presence of the two people who saw her completely and wanted her exactly as she was.

Afterward, the air in the room always felt lighter, as if a storm had passed through and left everything cleansed. They would linger in that hazy, post-coital silence, the three of them tangled in sheets or leaning against one another on the rug.

Miriam’s daughter arrived at four seventeen in the morning, after a long night in which Eitan discovered that there were very few useful things a husband could say to a woman in labour.

“You are doing wonderfully,” he told her.

“I know.”

“You’re very brave.”

“I know.”

“I’m here with you.”

“Eitan, if you tell me I’m brave one more time, I may use your bow tie to strangle you.”

He immediately fell silent.

A few minutes later, he offered her a sip of water.

She accepted it.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

“And I’m sorry about the bow tie.”

“I shall try to forgive you.”

She laughed, then gripped his hand as another contraction came. His fingers tightened around hers, and he leaned close, letting her squeeze as hard as she needed to.

He had been nervous when they arrived at the hospital. He had been nervous when the midwife explained what would happen. He had been nervous when Miriam’s face tightened with pain and there was nothing he could do to take it away.

But he stayed beside her. He listened to the medical staff, fetched things when asked, and held her hand whenever she wanted it.

And Miriam, who had once been frightened that she would not know how to be a wife, discovered that she could be exhausted, frightened, impatient, and still entirely herself. She could tell Eitan when she needed him to speak and when she needed him to be quiet. She could ask for reassurance, and she could tell him when his reassurance was irritating.

Their marriage had prepared them for this in its own small way.

They had learned to trust each other.

At last, after a final tremendous effort, there was a cry.

A tiny, indignant, wonderfully vigorous cry.

The midwife smiled.

“Here she is.”

Miriam barely had time to catch her breath before the baby was placed against her.

For a moment she could only stare.

The baby was red-faced and wrinkled, with a shock of dark hair and a mouth that seemed to be making an objection to the entire business of having been born.

“Oh,” Miriam whispered.

Eitan stood beside her, looking down at his daughter.

“Oh,” he echoed.

The baby opened her mouth and cried again.

“She’s beautiful,” he said.

Miriam looked at him through exhausted tears.

“She’s rather cross.”

“She has had a very eventful evening.”

The baby made a small, snuffling noise and turned her face against Miriam’s chest.

Miriam touched one tiny cheek with her fingertip.

“Hello, little one,” she whispered. “I’m your Ima.”

Eitan bent over them, his eyes shining.

“And I’m your Abba.”

The baby did not appear impressed by either introduction.

“She has your expression,” Miriam told him.

“My expression?”

“The one you make when someone moves a bookshelf without consulting you.”

Eitan laughed, a little shakily.

“Then I shall have to learn to negotiate with her.”

He touched the baby’s hand. Her fingers closed around one of his, and he went completely still.

Miriam watched him.

“Eitan?”

He looked up at her.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly.

“Know what?”

“That I could love someone this much whom I’ve only just met.”

Miriam felt fresh tears spill down her cheeks.

“Neither did I.”

He kissed her forehead, then kissed the baby’s dark hair.

For the first time in his life, Eitan found that he had no desire whatsoever to say anything clever.

He simply stood beside his wife and daughter, holding them both as carefully as if the whole world had been entrusted to him.

And, in a way, it had.

The grandparents arrived later that morning.

Miriam’s mother came into the room carrying a bag that contained, among other things, a change of clothes for Miriam, a knitted blanket, snacks for Eitan, and enough food to sustain a small medical team.

“I know you have a cafeteria,” she explained, “but I thought you might want something proper.”

Miriam smiled weakly from the bed.

“Ima, I have just given birth. I don’t think I’m going to be reviewing the cafeteria menu.”

“You say that now.”

Her father followed, carrying flowers. Eitan’s parents came shortly afterwards, and the room filled with the happy confusion of people who had been waiting months to meet someone who had, until that morning, been no larger than an increasingly active bump beneath Miriam’s clothes.

Miriam’s mother approached the bed slowly.

“Can I see her?”

“Of course.”

Miriam carefully turned the baby so that her grandmother could see her face.

Her mother gasped.

“Oh, look at her.”

She covered her mouth with one hand.

“Look at her little nose. And her hair! Miriam, she has such lovely hair.”

“She has rather a lot of it,” Miriam agreed.

Her mother began to cry.

“Oh, my darling.”

She kissed Miriam’s forehead, then bent over the baby.

“Hello, little girl. I’m your Savta.”

The baby yawned.

Her grandmother laughed through her tears.

“She’s already tired of me.”

“She has inherited my family’s ability to become impatient with speeches,” Eitan said.

His father, who had been looking over his shoulder, gave a dignified cough.

“I don’t believe we have established which side of the family is responsible for that.”

“Abba, you once gave a twenty-minute explanation of why the synagogue’s new noticeboard was badly positioned.”

“It was badly positioned.”

“It was a noticeboard.”

“It was an architectural problem.”

Miriam’s father laughed, and the two grandfathers began discussing the noticeboard as though its placement had suddenly become a matter of urgent historical importance.

Meanwhile, Eitan’s mother was sitting beside the bed, holding her granddaughter with an expression of complete wonder.

“I had forgotten how small they are,” she whispered.

Eitan stood behind her, looking down.

“You’ve raised three children.”

“Yes, and I have forgotten everything I knew about newborns. Apparently, this is what happens when one becomes a grandmother.”

“Perhaps you could write it all down before you forget anything else.”

She looked up at him.

“Perhaps you could be quiet and let me enjoy my granddaughter.”

“An excellent suggestion.”

Miriam watched them all, her heart so full that it almost hurt.

She had imagined becoming a mother for so many years. Once, she had imagined it as the moment when she would finally be vindicated, when all those years of unsuccessful dates would be redeemed by the life she had managed to build.

But this was nothing like vindication.

It was simply love.

Her parents loved her. Eitan’s parents loved him. They had all come to love this tiny, bewildered baby, who had done nothing except arrive in the world and demand to be fed.

And Miriam, who had once believed that she had been left behind, found herself surrounded by people who were delighted that she was here.

Raven arrived that afternoon.

She knocked softly, then peered around the door.

“Am I allowed in, or is this a strictly grandparental establishment now?”

Miriam smiled.

“Come in.”

Raven entered carrying a small parcel wrapped in dark-purple paper. She had dressed simply, in a long black skirt and a soft charcoal blouse, with her purple hair braided back from her face. The silver moth pendant she wore had become so familiar to the family that Miriam’s mother had once asked where she could buy one for herself.

Raven stopped beside the bed.

“Oh, Miriam.”

Miriam held out her hand.

“Come and meet her.”

Raven approached, and the expression on her face changed. She had been present for so many stages of Miriam’s journey: the loneliness, the first dates with Eitan, the engagement, the wedding, the pregnancy. She had celebrated every step, sometimes with jokes, sometimes with tears, and always with the fierce affection she had come to feel for her friend.

But this was different.

This was the person they had all been waiting to meet.

“She’s so tiny,” Raven whispered.

“She was quite determined to make her entrance,” Eitan said.

Raven smiled at him, then looked at Miriam.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Happy. Hungry. In that order, I think.”

“Excellent. I brought you something.”

She placed the parcel on the bedside table.

Inside was a little blanket, dark purple with tiny embroidered silver stars and crescent moons along the edge. It was soft, warm, and beautifully made.

Miriam touched it.

“Raven.”

“I know. It’s a little spooky.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“I thought she ought to have something from her slightly eccentric aunt.”

Miriam looked up.

“Her aunt?”

Raven’s smile faltered for just a moment, as if the word had touched something unexpectedly tender.

“Well, I assumed I had earned the title.”

Miriam reached out and caught her hand.

“You have.”

Raven blinked quickly.

“All right,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’m not going to cry. I have been very brave about this whole thing.”

Eitan raised an eyebrow.

“Would you like me to tell you how brave you are?”

“Absolutely not. I have heard reports of what happens when you say that to Miriam.”

Miriam laughed.

Then she shifted the baby carefully in her arms.

“Would you like to hold her?”

Raven stared at her.

“Really?”

“Really.”

She glanced at Eitan, who nodded warmly.

“Of course.”

Raven washed her hands, then returned to the bedside. Miriam showed her how to support the baby’s head, and Raven sat down carefully, accepting the little girl with an expression of almost comical concentration.

“Hello,” she whispered.

The baby opened her eyes briefly, revealing dark, unfocused eyes, then closed them again.

Raven gazed down at her.

“Oh, you’re lovely.”

The baby made a small noise.

“Yes, I know. The world is terribly bright and everyone keeps talking. It’s a dreadful introduction. I promise the biscuits improve.”

Eitan laughed.

Raven looked up at him.

“What? I’m giving her important information.”

“Naturally.”

She returned her attention to the baby.

“You have no idea how many people have been waiting to meet you,” she murmured. “Your parents are wonderful people. Your grandparents are going to spoil you beyond reason. And I intend to make sure you have books, and stories, and people who teach you that the world is much larger than you first imagine.”

The baby’s hand moved against Raven’s blouse.

Raven stopped speaking.

She stared at that tiny hand, then looked at Miriam.

“She touched me.”

“Babies do that,” Eitan said gently.

“Yes, thank you, Eitan. I am aware of the basic functions of infants.”

But her voice had gone thick.

Miriam smiled.

“You love her already.”

Raven looked down at the baby again.

“Of course I do.”

There was no hesitation in the answer.

She held the child for several more minutes, rocking her gently while the family talked around them. Nobody found it strange that Raven had been offered this honour. She was Miriam’s closest friend, a person who had been present through the entire journey to motherhood. The grandparents treated her with the same warm familiarity they had shown her at the wedding, and Miriam’s mother even came to stand beside her to admire the baby’s tiny fingers.

“You’re holding her beautifully,” she told Raven.

Raven looked up, surprised.

“Thank you.”

“She’s comfortable with you.”

Raven swallowed.

“I hope she grows up knowing that she’s loved by all of us.”

Miriam’s mother touched her shoulder.

“She will.”

And Raven, who had once worried that marriage would leave her outside Miriam’s new life, looked down at the sleeping child in her arms and understood that her place in the family had become something more permanent than she had dared to hope.

They chose a name that reflected both their hopes for their daughter and the Jewish tradition into which she had been born.

At the synagogue the following Shabbat, the community gathered to welcome her.

Miriam was still recovering and moved carefully, with Eitan beside her at every step. He carried the baby in her little carrier until they reached the synagogue hall, where the family had arranged a comfortable place for Miriam to sit.

The women greeted Miriam warmly. Several came over to admire the baby, while others brought food, offered practical advice, or simply squeezed her hand.

The men greeted Eitan, congratulated him, and asked the usual questions about how Miriam was doing.

“Very well,” Eitan said. “Tired, but well.”

“Good. And you?”

Eitan paused.

“I have discovered that I am capable of being frightened by someone who weighs less than a bag of flour.”

His friend laughed.

“Wait until she learns to speak.”

“I am trying not to think that far ahead.”

During the synagogue service, the rabbi announced the birth and called Eitan up for the customary naming of a daughter. The congregation listened as he recited the appropriate blessings, and the rabbi announced her Hebrew name:

Tamar.

The name had been chosen together, after long conversations about biblical women, family traditions, and the qualities they hoped their daughter would grow to embody. They loved the image of the date palm: rooted, resilient, able to flourish in a difficult landscape, and generous in what it gave.

Miriam listened from her seat, holding Tamar close, and felt a quiet certainty settle over her.

Tamar.

Her daughter had a name.

A place in the Jewish story.

A place in their family.

And a place in a home that had been waiting for her long before anyone knew what she would be called.

After the service, Eitan came down from the bimah and knelt beside Miriam.

“Tamar,” he whispered, looking at their daughter.

Miriam smiled.

“Tamar.”

He kissed her forehead.

“Hello, Tamar.”

The baby slept through the entire ceremony.

Raven, sitting beside Miriam, leaned over and whispered, “She has inherited your ability to remain calm during long speeches.”

“Or Eitan’s ability to fall asleep while reading,” Miriam whispered back.

Raven stifled a laugh.

Eitan glanced at them.

“I can hear you.”

“Excellent,” Raven replied. “Then you know that we are discussing the baby’s scholarly prospects.”

He shook his head, smiling, and kissed Miriam’s cheek before taking his seat beside her.

The brunch in the synagogue hall was lively, crowded, and full of food.

Miriam’s mother had insisted on helping with the menu, and Eitan’s mother had insisted on helping Miriam’s mother. Between them, they had produced an impressive spread: salads, cheeses, breads, quiches, pastries, fruit, cakes, and enough tea to keep the entire congregation awake until the following morning.

Eitan’s father had helped arrange the tables, though he had been gently prevented from explaining why the room would function better if the tables were positioned at a slightly different angle.

Raven had been given the task of arranging the flowers.

She had chosen yellow and purple flowers, naturally, and placed them in small jars along the tables. When Miriam saw them, she smiled.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered,” Raven said. “Those colours started this entire ridiculous romance.”

“They did not start it.”

“They were present at the proposal. I have photographic evidence.”

Eitan joined them, carrying a plate of food.

“The colours were a supporting influence.”

“A supporting influence!” Raven repeated. “You two are going to make the most boring grandparents in history.”

“We have not yet reached the grandparent stage,” Miriam pointed out.

“I am planning ahead.”

Throughout the brunch, people came to congratulate them and admire Tamar. Friends from the synagogue, cousins, neighbours, and relatives they had not seen for months all took turns peering into the carrier or asking whether they could hold her.

Raven moved easily among them, bringing Miriam food when she needed it and making sure she had a comfortable chair. Nobody questioned why she was there or why she was so involved. She had been at the engagement party, the wedding, the garden celebration, and throughout the pregnancy. She had become a familiar part of the couple’s life.

At one point, Miriam’s mother approached Raven while she was standing beside the table with Tamar in her arms.

“Would you like me to take her for a little while?” she asked. “You must be tired.”

Raven smiled.

“I’m all right, thank you. She’s very good company.”

Miriam’s mother looked down at the baby.

“She seems to like you.”

“I hope so. I have plans to become her favourite aunt.”

“That may be difficult. There are several relatives competing for the position.”

“Then I shall have to distinguish myself through excellence.”

Miriam’s mother laughed.

“You have already distinguished yourself by being a very good friend to her mother.”

Raven looked at her.

The older woman touched her arm.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for everything you did for Miriam. I knew she was unhappy, but I didn’t understand how much she had begun to believe that there was something wrong with her. You helped her see herself differently.”

Raven’s eyes filled.

“I didn’t do it alone.”

“No,” Miriam’s mother agreed. “But you were there. And that matters.”

Raven glanced across the room.

Miriam was sitting beside Eitan, watching him hold Tamar while he talked to his father. Eitan had one finger resting against the baby’s tiny hand, and every time she moved, his attention returned to her as if the rest of the conversation had temporarily ceased to exist.

Miriam caught Raven looking and smiled.

Raven smiled back.

“She’s happy,” Raven said softly.

“Yes,” Miriam’s mother replied. “She is.”

“And I am very glad.”

Miriam’s mother gave Raven a brief, warm hug.

“Then we are glad too.”

After brunch, when the hall had been tidied and the grandparents had each taken at least three more photographs of Tamar, Eitan and Miriam prepared to leave.

They had one more stop to make.

Raven had been planning it for weeks, with Miriam and Eitan’s full knowledge. The coven had asked whether they might offer the baby a name of their own—not a replacement for her Hebrew name, not a religious conversion or a claim over her, but a symbolic name bestowed by the friends who had become part of her family’s life.

Miriam had loved the idea.

Eitan had asked careful questions about what the ceremony would involve. Raven had explained everything, and he had been satisfied that it would be a non-religious, symbolic gathering: no worship, no supernatural claims, no vows or competing religious commitments. The Hebrew name would remain Tamar. The other name would be a private gift from Raven’s community, a piece of folklore and affection.

So, later that afternoon, they drove to a small forest on the outskirts of Jerusalem.

The trees stood close together, their branches filtering the sunlight into shifting patterns on the ground. The air smelled of dry leaves, pine, and warm earth. Raven’s friends had chosen a quiet clearing where the ground was soft beneath the trees and a low stone wall marked the edge of an old path.

There were no grand decorations. Just a circle of small lanterns, a dark-purple cloth spread over a flat stone, a bowl of fallen leaves, and a scattering of yellow and purple flowers.

The coven had gathered in ordinary clothes, though several wore black, and one woman had painted tiny silver stars along her cheekbones. A few carried books of folklore or poetry. Others had brought food and blankets.

When Miriam arrived with Tamar in her arms, everyone grew quiet.

Raven approached them, her face full of affection.

“Welcome to the forest,” she said softly.

Eitan looked around at the trees.

“I approve of the architectural choices.”

Raven rolled her eyes.

“One day, Eitan, I will take you somewhere with no buildings at all.”

“And I shall admire the trees.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Miriam laughed, and Raven reached for her hand.

“Are you still happy to do this?”

“Very happy,” Miriam replied.

Eitan nodded.

“So am I.”

Raven smiled, then looked down at Tamar.

“Then let us give this little girl a name that belongs to the stories of the night.”

She led them into the clearing, where the others stood in a loose circle.

The woman with blue hair, who had once brought readings to Miriam and Eitan’s wedding celebration, stepped forward with a small book. She spoke about names in folklore: names given to children as blessings, names drawn from the moon and the stars, names that described a hope rather than a destiny.

“No name can decide who a child will become,” she said. “A name cannot protect her from every sorrow, or promise her a particular life. We give names because we love someone, because we welcome them, because we hope the world will be kind to them—and because we promise, as far as we are able, to be kind ourselves.”

Eitan listened attentively. Miriam looked down at her daughter, who had woken and was staring solemnly at the leaves overhead.

Raven took a small silver charm from the purple cloth. It was shaped like a crescent moon, with a tiny star hanging inside it. She did not place it on the baby, but held it where Miriam and Eitan could see.

“We have chosen a name for you,” Raven whispered to Tamar. “A name from the old stories, from the dark of the forest and the light of the moon. Not because we think you belong to the night, but because the night has its own beauty, and we want you to know that the things that seem strange or frightening at first can also be beautiful.”

She paused, and her voice grew softer.

“We call you Nyx.”

The name rested in the clearing like a small, dark jewel.

Nyx: the ancient Greek personification of night, mysterious and beautiful, older than the familiar stories of the Olympian gods. It was a name that Raven loved for its sound, its shadowed elegance, and the sense of wonder it carried.

Miriam smiled.

“Nyx,” she repeated.

Eitan considered it.

“It is a very good name.”

Raven looked at him in surprise.

“You approve?”

“I said it was a good name. I did not say I was going to start wearing black and consulting the moon.”

“Give it time.”

Miriam laughed.

Then she looked down at her daughter.

“Tamar Nyx,” she whispered, not as a formal name but as a way of holding both gifts together in her heart. “Our little Tamar. Our little Nyx.”

The woman with blue hair offered a few words of blessing—not a spell, not a prediction, but a wish that Tamar might grow up curious, kind, brave enough to ask questions, and confident enough to find beauty in unexpected places.

One by one, the others added their own wishes.

May she always have people who listen to her.

May she never believe that being different makes her less worthy of love.

May she have the courage to be gentle.

May she know when to stand firm and when to change her mind.

May she always find a friend when she needs one.

When it was Raven’s turn, she looked down at the baby in Miriam’s arms, and her eyes shone.

“Tamar,” she said, “your parents have given you a home rooted in love and tradition. Your family will teach you many things, and the world will teach you others. I hope you will always have room in your heart for questions, for wonder, and for people who see things differently from you.”

She took a breath.

“And I hope you will always know that you are loved. Not because you will grow up to be clever, or good, or successful, or anything else. You are loved because you are you. And I promise to be here, as your friend and your aunt, for as long as you will have me.”

Tamar made a small sound.

Raven laughed through her tears.

“Yes, I know. I’m being very sentimental. You’ll have to forgive me.”

She looked at Miriam and Eitan.

“May I hold her?”

Miriam smiled and passed Tamar into Raven’s arms.

Raven held her carefully, as she had held her in the hospital, supporting her head and drawing her close. The little girl stared up at her with wide, dark eyes.

“Hello, Nyx,” Raven whispered.

The baby yawned.

“Yes. It’s a lot to take in. Two names, two families, and a forest full of strange people. I would be tired too.”

Eitan stood beside Miriam, his arm around her waist. She leaned against him, watching Raven rock their daughter gently beneath the trees.

The afternoon sunlight filtered through the branches, catching the silver charm in Raven’s hand. The little lanterns glowed faintly even before dusk, and the flowers lay bright against the dark cloth.

There was nothing supernatural in the clearing. No promise that Tamar’s life would be easy, no claim that a name could shape her destiny, no demand that she believe what her parents or Raven believed.

There was only a group of people who loved her, gathered to welcome her in their own way.

Miriam looked at Eitan.

“I think she’s going to grow up with a rather unusual family.”

Eitan kissed her forehead.

“She already has.”

“And she’s going to have so many people who love her.”

“Yes.”

Miriam rested her head against his shoulder.

“That was what I wanted, when I was younger. A home. A family. People who would be there.”

Eitan turned to look at her.

“And now?”

She smiled as Raven lifted Tamar slightly to show her the leaves overhead.

“Now I think I understand that a family is not just the people who share your name, or your beliefs, or your home. It’s also the people who choose to be there. The people who make room for you, and who keep making room as your life changes.”

He kissed her again.

“I think our daughter will have plenty of room.”

As the afternoon began to fade, Raven returned Tamar to her parents, and the group gathered around them for one last photograph beneath the trees.

Miriam held her daughter. Eitan stood close beside them. Raven leaned against Miriam’s shoulder, her purple hair bright against the green of the forest.

The photographer counted to three.

Tamar chose that exact moment to sneeze.

Everyone burst out laughing.

And so the first photograph of Tamar and Nyx was not solemn or mysterious at all. It was a picture of her parents laughing, her aunt wiping away tears, and a circle of friends gathered beneath the trees.

A Jewish baby with a Hebrew name and a secret name from the night.

A little girl who had been welcomed in a synagogue, celebrated around a family table, and blessed beneath the trees by people who would teach her different things, ask different questions, and love her in their own ways.

And as they walked back towards the cars, with Tamar sleeping peacefully in her father’s arms, Raven fell into step beside Miriam.

“She’s perfect,” she whispered.

Miriam looked at her daughter, then at her friend.

“She’s ours,” she replied.

And that, Raven thought, was even better.

For the first few days, Miriam and Eitan discovered that a newborn could be both astonishingly small and astonishingly demanding.

Tamar was, by most accounts, a very good baby. She fed, slept, and filled her nappies with a determination that seemed entirely disproportionate to her size. She cried when she was hungry, when she was uncomfortable, and occasionally for reasons that neither parent could identify despite a thorough investigation involving feeding, changing, burping, rocking, checking the temperature of the room, and consulting three books.

“She has inherited your love of mysteries,” Miriam told Eitan one night.

Eitan, who was walking slowly around their bedroom with Tamar tucked against his chest, looked down at the tiny face peering up at him.

“I think she has inherited your ability to make a perfectly reasonable observation sound like an accusation.”

“It’s one of my many gifts.”

“I am grateful for all of them.”

“You’re saying that because you’re holding the baby and can’t escape.”

“I am saying it because I am a married man of excellent judgment.”

Tamar hiccupped.

They both looked down at her.

“An endorsement,” Eitan said solemnly.

Miriam laughed, then winced.

Eitan’s expression changed at once. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Just pulled something. Don’t look so alarmed.”

“I wasn’t alarmed.”

“You looked as if you were about to summon an emergency committee.”

“I was considering whether the committee should include your mother.”

“Absolutely not. My mother would arrive with soup, three blankets, and an opinion about the cot.”

“Four blankets,” Eitan corrected. “She brought four yesterday.”

Miriam smiled and settled back against her pillows.

The truth was that the first days were not entirely easy. She loved Tamar with a fierceness that sometimes startled her, but she was also sore, tired, and occasionally overwhelmed by the sheer physical reality of having given birth. The episiotomy had left her tender and uncomfortable. Sitting for too long hurt; getting up required thought; even finding a comfortable position for feeding could become a small engineering project.

Eitan was learning that loving someone very much did not automatically tell you what they needed.

At first, he wanted to do everything. He brought water before Miriam asked, adjusted pillows, fetched food, checked whether she was comfortable, and hovered just close enough to be useful and just close enough to be irritating.

On the fourth morning, Miriam caught him standing beside the bed holding a glass of water, a cushion, and a plate of toast.

“Eitan.”

“Yes, my love?”

“Put everything down.”

He obeyed.

“Now sit.”

He sat on the edge of the chair.

“I appreciate that you want to help me,” she said. “I really do. But I need you to remember that I am recovering, not disappearing. You don’t have to anticipate every possible discomfort before I experience it.”

He looked thoughtful. “I am trying to make things easier.”

“I know. Sometimes the easiest thing is to ask me what I need.”

“Very well. What do you need?”

Miriam considered this.

“A kiss. And then I would like you to eat the toast before it becomes a historical artefact.”

He leaned over and kissed her gently.

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Bring Tamar here. I want to hold her.”

He placed the baby carefully in her arms, making sure Miriam was comfortable before settling beside her. For a while, they sat quietly together, looking at their daughter.

Then Eitan said, “I am beginning to understand that being a father is largely the art of learning when not to interfere.”

“Don’t become too good at it,” Miriam said. “I shall still expect you to change nappies.”

“I had assumed that was included in the position.”

“Good. The contract is binding.”

Their mothers were invaluable during those first weeks.

Miriam’s mother appeared with food that could be heated in minutes, fresh laundry, and the sort of practical wisdom that seemed to have accumulated somewhere in the family kitchen over generations. Eitan’s mother brought soup, held Tamar while Miriam showered, and gently reminded her son that a wife who had just given birth might appreciate being asked whether she wanted company rather than having company announced to her.

Both grandmothers had strong views about baby clothes.

Neither was prepared for Raven.

Raven arrived on the eighth day wearing a black dress, heavy boots, silver rings, and her usual vivid purple hair. She carried an enormous bag decorated with bats.

Miriam opened the door, looked at the bag, and then looked at Raven.

“What have you done?”

“Nothing.”

“Raven.”

“I have made a small contribution to the welfare of a vulnerable infant.”

“Why is the bag making a noise?”

“Because the owl has a squeaker.”

“The owl?”

Raven produced a black stuffed owl with enormous yellow eyes.

It was followed by a small plush bat, a black cotton babygrow printed with tiny white stars, and another babygrow featuring a procession of bats hanging upside down beneath a crescent moon.

Miriam stared.

Raven held up the bat-patterned outfit.

“Look at it. It is perfect.”

“It is for a baby.”

“Yes. A baby with excellent taste.”

“She cannot even hold her head up yet.”

“Which is why I have selected soft cotton rather than leather.”

Eitan appeared behind Miriam, took in the display, and nodded with grave approval.

“The stitching looks good.”

Raven pointed at him. “Thank you. Someone in this household respects craftsmanship.”

“I also appreciate the structural integrity of the owl.”

“You see?” Raven said to Miriam. “He understands.”

Miriam let them into the flat.

The owl was immediately placed in the nursery, where it sat on a shelf well out of Tamar’s reach. The bat became a fixture beside the changing table, and the starry babygrow was washed and folded with the rest of Tamar’s clothes.

Raven was delighted.

“You’re actually going to use it?”

“Of course,” Miriam said. “It’s lovely.”

“I was prepared for your mother to object.”

“My mother thinks black is a perfectly respectable colour. She just thinks it is a perfectly respectable colour for curtains, not necessarily babies.”

“Progress,” Raven said.

She washed her hands thoroughly, as everyone did before handling Tamar, and went into the bedroom.

Miriam was sitting propped up against the pillows. She was moving more easily now, though she still needed to be careful and take breaks. The soreness had begun to ease, but she was learning not to confuse a better day with being fully recovered. Some afternoons she felt almost like herself; others, a long walk from the bedroom to the kitchen left her aching and ready to lie down again.

Raven had learned not to make a fuss about it.

Instead, she asked, “Would you like me to hold her while you eat?”

“Yes, please.”

“And would you like me to bring you something?”

“There’s tea on the counter.”

“I can manage tea.”

“Raven, you can manage an entire coven. I think you can manage a kettle.”

“An unfairly accurate assessment.”

She brought Miriam her tea and a plate of biscuits, then settled into the armchair with Tamar cradled against her.

For several minutes, Raven said nothing. She simply looked at the baby.

Tamar had acquired a small collection of expressions: solemn concentration, sleepy indignation, startled surprise, and a peculiar little frown that made her look as though she had just discovered an inconsistency in a philosophical argument.

“She looks like she’s judging me,” Raven whispered.

“She does that,” Miriam said. “Eitan says she gets it from me.”

“Obviously. He would never judge anyone.”

From the kitchen, Eitan called, “I can hear you.”

“Good,” Raven called back. “Then you can hear that I am praising your excellent character.”

“I am touched.”

“You should be. It’s a rare event.”

Tamar opened her eyes briefly, regarded Raven’s face, and then fell asleep.

Raven looked absurdly pleased.

“I think she likes me.”

“She likes warmth and a heartbeat.”

“I am warm and I have a heartbeat. We have much in common.”

Miriam watched her friend for a moment. There was something quietly moving about seeing Raven with Tamar. Raven had been present at the beginning of Miriam’s new life, when Miriam had still believed that happiness was something other people received and she could only wait for it. Now she was here, holding the child who had arrived at the end of that long, uncertain road.

Not the end of Miriam’s life, of course. The beginning of another part of it.

“You’re good with her,” Miriam said.

Raven glanced up. “She’s a very forgiving audience.”

“You’re gentle. You don’t fuss. You don’t act as though she might break.”

“I’m trying not to teach her that the world is frightened of her.”

Miriam smiled. “That’s a good ambition for an aunt.”

Raven looked back down at Tamar.

“Aunt Raven,” she said softly, testing the title again. “I like that.”

“You’d better. You’re stuck with it.”

“Excellent. I’ll put it on my business cards.”

As the weeks passed, Miriam’s recovery continued.

There were appointments, careful walks around the neighbourhood, and days when she had to remind herself that healing was not a competition. She followed her midwife’s advice, took rest seriously when she could, and learned to accept that some tasks could wait. The first time she managed a comfortable walk to the little bakery at the end of the street, she came home triumphant with a bag of rolls.

Eitan met her at the door.

“You went out alone?”

“I went to the bakery, not to climb Masada.”

“You should have told me.”

“I wanted to go by myself.”

He paused, remembering their conversation.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Very much.”

“Then I am glad.”

She looked at him, a little surprised by how easily he had said it.

He kissed her forehead. “Would you like me to make tea?”

“Yes.”

“And would you like me to ask whether you’re tired?”

“No.”

“Would you like me to refrain from asking whether you’re tired?”

“Very much.”

“Your wishes are my command.”

“They are not, actually. But thank you.”

She went to sit on the sofa, where she could see Tamar sleeping in her cot. Eitan made tea. Neither of them pretended that the recovery was over, but Miriam began to feel more at home in her own body again. She could sit comfortably for longer periods. The sharpest discomfort eased. The fatigue remained, but it was no longer quite so overwhelming.

She began to recognise the difference between ordinary tiredness, the exhaustion of broken nights, and the kind of ache that meant she needed to stop and rest. Eitan became better at noticing when she wanted help and, just as importantly, when she wanted him to trust her.

Their marriage acquired new rhythms.

Eitan learned how to change a nappy while holding a conversation about Maimonides. Miriam learned that she could feed Tamar in the middle of a sentence and still win an argument. They discovered which songs settled her, which positions helped her burp, and which tiny facial expression meant that a perfectly innocent-looking baby was about to produce a very alarming nappy.

They learned to sleep when they could, to eat before the food went cold, and to accept help without feeling that they had failed.

They also learned that there was no such thing as a perfect parent.

There were moments when Tamar cried and neither of them knew why. There were evenings when Eitan felt useless because nothing he tried seemed to soothe her. There were afternoons when Miriam wanted to be alone for half an hour and then missed Tamar the moment Eitan carried her into the next room.

They spoke about these things honestly.

“I thought I would know what to do,” Eitan admitted one night, after finally settling Tamar.

“Why?”

“Because I have read several books.”

Miriam turned to look at him.

“Oh, my darling.”

“I see now that this was not a sufficient qualification.”

“Have you considered consulting the baby?”

“She is an uncooperative expert.”

“She gets that from your side of the family.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Miriam reached for his hand.

“We don’t have to know everything. We just have to keep paying attention.”

He squeezed her fingers. “That, I think, we can do.”

Raven became part of the household routine in a way that surprised nobody except Raven herself.

She came by several times a week. Sometimes she brought food. Sometimes she brought a bag of baby clothes. Sometimes she arrived empty-handed and announced that she had come to provide moral support, which generally meant drinking tea, holding Tamar, and telling Miriam amusing stories about the latest arguments in the coven.

One afternoon, she appeared with a pair of tiny black socks embroidered with silver moons.

Miriam held them up.

“She will wear these for approximately eleven minutes before she grows out of them.”

“Then we must use the eleven minutes wisely.”

“Of course.”

Another time, Raven brought a stuffed bat with soft wings and little embroidered fangs.

Eitan examined it.

“This one is rather charming.”

Raven placed a hand over her heart. “I knew I could win you over.”

“I am not sure that is a bat. It may be a small, nocturnal architect.”

“Why?”

“The wings have been designed with unusual attention to symmetry.”

Miriam laughed so hard that she had to put down her tea.

Raven pointed at Eitan. “This is why I like him. He can turn a stuffed animal into a professional colleague.”

The bat joined the owl on the nursery shelf.

Raven was careful about the distinction between helping and taking over. If Miriam wanted to hold Tamar, she handed her over. If Miriam wanted to shower, nap, or eat without balancing a baby against her shoulder, Raven took Tamar and told her to go. If Miriam said she was fine and wanted to keep doing something herself, Raven accepted the answer.

And when Miriam admitted one afternoon that she was exhausted, sore, and inexplicably close to tears because she had dropped a spoon, Raven did not tell her to be grateful or remind her how lucky she was.

She simply sat beside her.

“Would you like me to take Tamar for a little while?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like tea?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like me to tell you a terrible story about the woman in the coven who tried to make a dramatic entrance and got her cloak caught in a folding chair?”

Miriam sniffed. “Very much.”

“Excellent. It has a satisfying ending involving three people, a pair of scissors, and a great deal of swearing.”

By the time the story was finished, Miriam was laughing.

Raven looked pleased, but not triumphant. She knew that some days a story could help and some days it could not. She was learning, as the new parents were, that caring for someone was less about having the perfect response and more about staying beside them.

One Friday afternoon, Miriam’s mother arrived to find Raven on the sofa with Tamar asleep against her chest. Eitan was in the kitchen preparing the vegetables for Shabbat, and Miriam was sitting at the table folding tiny clothes.

On the sofa beside Raven lay a black babygrow covered in little yellow stars.

Miriam’s mother stopped in the doorway.

“Another black outfit?”

Raven looked up cautiously. “With stars.”

“Ah.” Miriam’s mother considered this. “The stars improve it.”

“They do,” Raven agreed.

Miriam’s mother came closer and peered at Tamar. “She looks very comfortable.”

“She is,” Raven said. “I have discovered that I am an excellent chair.”

“Don’t become too proud. Babies are not known for their loyalty.”

“I am prepared for betrayal.”

Miriam’s mother smiled and touched Tamar’s tiny foot.

“You know,” she said, “I used to worry that Miriam would always have to do everything alone.”

Miriam looked up from the clothes.

“Imma.”

“No, let me finish.” Her mother sat down beside her. “When you were going through the shidduchim, you were so unhappy. You thought there was something wrong with you because things weren’t working out. And I wanted to help, but I couldn’t make the right person appear. I couldn’t even make you stop blaming yourself.”

Miriam lowered her eyes briefly.

Her mother reached for her hand.

“Now I come here, and I see you and Eitan learning how to be a family. I see Raven sitting on your sofa as though she has always belonged here. I see you letting people help you without apologising for it. It makes me happy.”

Raven looked down at Tamar, suddenly very interested in the baby’s ear.

Miriam squeezed her mother’s hand.

“I am happy.”

“I know.”

“And I wasn’t worthless before Eitan.”

“No,” her mother said firmly. “You weren’t.”

“I know that now.”

Her mother kissed her cheek. “Good.”

There was a moment of silence, warm and a little fragile.

Then Eitan called from the kitchen, “Does anyone know where the good vegetable knife is?”

“All the knives are good knives,” Miriam’s mother called back.

“Not the one I need.”

“Then perhaps it is not a good knife.”

Raven began to laugh. Miriam joined her. Even Eitan, from the kitchen, could be heard laughing under his breath.

Tamar stirred, opened her mouth in a small, indignant circle, and made a brief noise of protest.

Everyone froze.

Raven rocked gently.

“It’s all right, little Nyx,” she whispered. “The adults are being ridiculous again.”

Tamar settled.

Miriam’s mother watched Raven for a moment, her expression softening. She did not understand every aspect of Raven’s life. She probably never would. The purple hair still startled her occasionally, and she privately thought that some of Raven’s clothes looked as though they belonged in a theatre production about haunted castles.

But she understood the way Raven held Tamar. She understood the way Miriam’s face relaxed when Raven walked through the door. She understood that love could take a form she had not expected and still be real.

“Raven,” she said, “you should stay for Shabbat dinner.”

Raven looked up. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. You are here every week anyway.”

“Not every week.”

“Nearly every week.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Miriam gave her a look.

Raven sighed. “I see that I am not going to win this argument.”

“No,” Miriam said. “You are not.”

“Fine. But I am bringing dessert next time.”

“Bring whatever you like,” Miriam’s mother said. “Just don’t bring another bat that makes a noise.”

Raven glanced at the stuffed bat on the shelf.

“I make no promises.”

That evening, after the candles were lit and the blessing had been said, Miriam sat beside Eitan at their Shabbat table. Tamar slept in her bassinet nearby, wrapped in a soft yellow blanket. The room smelled of challah, chicken soup, and the roasted vegetables Eitan had insisted on preparing himself.

Raven sat across from them, wearing a black dress with a little silver embroidery. She had brought a cake, which Miriam’s mother had approved of after examining it for suspicious ingredients.

The meal was not especially elegant. Tamar woke halfway through the soup and needed feeding. Eitan spilled a little water. Raven told a story with so many digressions that Miriam’s father asked whether there was ever going to be a conclusion. Miriam’s mother insisted that everyone eat more.

It was, Miriam thought, exactly the kind of Shabbat dinner she had once imagined.

Only now she understood something she had not understood then: the beauty of it did not come from having achieved a perfect life. It came from the people around the table, from the willingness to make room for one another, from the fact that nobody had to pretend to be someone else to belong.

After dinner, Eitan took Tamar for a little walk around the sitting room. Raven helped Miriam’s mother clear the table, and Miriam sat back to rest, listening to the familiar voices.

She was still healing. She was still tired. She sometimes worried about whether she would be a good mother, whether she would know how to answer Tamar’s questions, whether she would manage the competing demands of family, work, and her own needs.

But she no longer thought of happiness as a fragile prize that might be taken away if she failed to do everything correctly.

It was here, in the ordinary life they were building.

In Eitan’s quiet voice as he spoke to Tamar.

In her mother’s insistence that everyone have more soup.

In Raven’s ridiculous black baby clothes and her determination to be the sort of aunt who taught a child to love the strange and wonderful.

In the knowledge that if tomorrow was difficult, she would not have to face it alone.

Eitan came back and sat beside her, Tamar sleeping in his arms.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

Miriam leaned against his shoulder.

“Yes,” she said. “I think I am.”

He kissed her hair.

Across the room, Raven was trying to persuade Miriam’s father that a stuffed owl was a perfectly respectable educational toy.

“It teaches nocturnal biology,” Raven explained.

“It teaches a baby to chew on an owl,” he replied.

“Not yet. She has to develop the necessary motor skills.”

Miriam closed her eyes, smiling, and listened to them argue.

Their daughter slept peacefully in her father’s arms, surrounded by the warm, imperfect, slightly ridiculous world that was hers.

And little by little, they were learning how to make it a good one.

The doctor didn’t use the word “perfectly,” but the way she closed the chart and leaned back in her chair carried the weight of a definitive verdict. “Everything has returned to where it should be,” she told Miriam, her voice clinical yet kind. For Miriam, the news felt less like a medical clearance and more like a homecoming. For months, her body had felt like a landscape she was merely visiting, a series of symptoms and recoveries, but as she stepped out of the clinic and into the crisp afternoon air, she felt the invisible tether of “patienthood” finally snap.

When they arrived home, the house was humming with the chaotic energy of a visiting Raven. There were crumbs of organic crackers on the coffee table and the sound of Tamar making delighted, bubbly noises as Raven performed a dramatic interpretive dance to the tune of a baby rattle.

“The goddess of healing has returned!” Raven announced, sweeping into the hallway. She didn’t ask for the update; she read the lightness in Miriam’s stride. Without a word, Raven scooped Tamar out of the playpen and whispered something about a “secret expedition to the kitchen” to investigate the contents of the refrigerator.

The door to the bedroom clicked shut, sealing out the world.

The bedroom door became a permeable membrane, filtering the sounds of the house into a distant, rhythmic hum. Inside, the air felt thick and expectant, smelling faintly of lavender and the lingering warmth of the afternoon sun. Eitan didn’t lead her to the bed so much as he drifted with her, their movements slow, almost tentative, as if they were rediscovering the geography of one another. There was no urgency, no frantic need to reclaim lost time; instead, there was a profound, quiet reverence. Every touch—the slide of a palm across a shoulder blade, the soft press of lips against a collarbone—felt earned, a deliberate celebration of a body that had finally stopped fighting itself.

In the hallway, Raven was the vigilant sentinel of the nursery. She had transformed the living room into a sort of sensory playground, and Tamar was currently preoccupied with the fascinating texture of a velvet ribbon. Raven kept her voice at a low, melodic hum, weaving a tapestry of nonsense songs and gentle distractions that acted as a sonic barrier. She knew exactly how to read the silence of the house, and she took a quiet pride in being the architect of this stolen hour. She didn’t just watch the baby; she curated an environment of absolute peace, ensuring that the world outside the bedroom door remained paused.

For Miriam, the experience was less about desire and more about integration. As Eitan moved with her, his weight a comforting anchor, she felt the last remnants of the clinic’s sterile air vanish. She wasn’t a patient, a mother, or a daughter in this moment; she was simply a woman, feeling the slow, steady pulse of her own heart echoing his. The intimacy was gentle, a slow-motion dance of skin and breath, where the goal wasn’t a destination but a lingering presence. It was the first time in months that she didn’t feel the phantom ache of recovery or the mental checklist of parental duties. There was only the warmth of the sheets and the steady, rhythmic breathing of the man who had walked beside her through the dark.

When they finally lay still, the silence of the room felt full. Eitan’s chest rose and fell against her, his heartbeat a slow, steady drum. They didn’t speak, as if words would break the spell of their reconnection. In the stillness, Miriam felt a sense of wholeness that had nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with being seen and held.

A sudden, high-pitched giggle erupted from the hallway, followed by Raven’s theatrical whisper: “And that, my dear, is why we never trust a squirrel with a secret!”

By the time Tamar was three months old, Miriam and Eitan had begun to recognise the shape of their new life.

It was not quite the life they had imagined. They had expected to be tired, of course, and to spend a great deal of time discussing nappies. They had not anticipated how much of their day would be organised around a person who could neither speak nor walk, yet somehow managed to determine when everyone ate, slept, showered, and left the house.

They had also not anticipated how much they would laugh.

Tamar was, genuinely, a remarkably good baby. She slept reasonably well, fed enthusiastically, and seemed to regard most of the world with amiable interest. She cried when something was wrong, but rarely without giving them a clue to investigate. Eitan developed a theory that she had inherited his systematic approach to problems. Miriam maintained that this was an extraordinary claim to make about a child whose principal methods of communication were crying and hiccupping.

By four months, Tamar had discovered her hands.

This was an important development.

She stared at them for long periods, opened and closed her fingers, and occasionally looked at her parents with an expression of astonishment, as if to ask whether they had known about these remarkable appendages all along.

“She has discovered the physical world,” Eitan whispered one morning, watching her examine her fist.

“She has discovered that she can put it in her mouth,” Miriam replied.

“An important first step in the pursuit of knowledge.”

“Please don’t encourage her. She already tries to eat her socks.”

He encouraged her anyway.

Eitan would sit on the rug with Tamar propped between his legs and describe things to her. He showed her the leaves on the balcony rosemary, the old Jerusalem stones visible through the window, the patterns in the wooden bookshelf. He explained, in a voice of grave importance, that the chair was a chair, the table was a table, and the little brass hinge on the cupboard had been designed rather more elegantly than its function required.

Tamar listened with solemn attention.

Miriam, passing with a basket of laundry, stopped beside them.

“Are you explaining architecture to a baby?”

“Of course.”

“Does she understand?”

“She is listening.”

“She is chewing your sleeve.”

“Architectural education takes many forms.”

Tamar released his sleeve and gave him a radiant, toothless smile.

Eitan looked at Miriam in triumph.

“An excellent student.”

Miriam kissed the top of Tamar’s head.

“She’s going to be unbearable when she learns to talk.”

Neither of them yet understood how accurate that prediction would prove to be.

Miriam’s recovery was gradual, but it went well. By the time Tamar was a few months old, the worst of the soreness from the birth and episiotomy had passed. She became increasingly comfortable moving around, going for walks, and sitting for long periods. She was careful not to rush herself, and she learned to recognise that a good day did not mean she had to do everything.

There were still tired afternoons. There were moments when she missed the freedom of being able to leave the flat without packing a bag containing half the nursery. There were nights when Tamar woke just as Miriam had begun to drift into deep sleep, and Miriam briefly considered whether a baby could be returned to the manufacturer for adjustments.

But she never felt she had to pretend that motherhood was effortless in order to prove that she loved her daughter.

Eitan helped, learned, and adjusted. He became an expert at settling Tamar against his shoulder, preparing a bottle when needed, folding the pram without swearing, and identifying the precise moment when Miriam wanted him to take the baby and the equally precise moment when she wanted him to bring her the baby.

That last skill had taken practice.

“I want her,” Miriam would say.

He would hand Tamar over.

Five minutes later, Miriam might say, “Please take her. I need to use the bathroom.”

He would take Tamar.

Then, as he reached the door, Miriam would call, “Actually, bring her back. I miss her.”

Eitan learned not to comment.

He also learned that when Miriam said she wanted an hour to herself, she meant it. She might spend the hour reading, visiting a friend, walking through the market, or simply sitting in a café drinking tea while it was still hot. Sometimes she came home refreshed. Sometimes she came home with a small bag of things she had bought for herself.

Either way, Eitan greeted her with a kiss and a report on Tamar’s latest activities.

“She has spent twenty minutes looking at the curtain.”

“Was it an interesting curtain?”

“I believe she found the pattern compelling.”

“And you?”

“I have been forced to reconsider my assumptions about curtains.”

Their life was not a story of two perfect parents. It was the story of two people learning to pay attention, to ask for help, to forgive one another for being tired, and to remember that they were husband and wife as well as Tamar’s parents.

They still went on dates occasionally. Their first attempt at an evening out lasted forty-five minutes before Miriam wondered whether Tamar had enough milk and Eitan wondered whether the person looking after her knew which blanket she preferred. Their second attempt went better. By the third, they managed an entire dinner without either of them checking the time.

When they returned home, Tamar was asleep, and the woman looking after her reported that she had been perfectly happy.

Miriam stood over the cot for a moment, watching her daughter breathe.

“I missed her,” she whispered.

Eitan put an arm around her waist.

“I know.”

“It’s absurd. We were gone for two hours.”

“Two hours is a very long time when you are used to someone shouting at you from the cot.”

“She does not shout.”

“She expresses her views firmly.”

Miriam leaned against him.

They stood together in the quiet nursery, loving their daughter and also, slowly, learning that loving her did not mean they had to stop being themselves.

Raven became as much a part of Tamar’s world as the rosemary on the balcony and the owl on the nursery shelf.

She continued to arrive with gifts that made Miriam shake her head and Eitan examine the stitching. There were black babygrows with silver stars, tiny socks with moons, a plush bat with extraordinarily soft wings, and a second owl because Raven had decided that one owl was insufficient for a child of such promise.

“You are creating a theme,” Miriam told her.

“I am creating an atmosphere.”

“You are creating a nursery that looks as though a very small goth has taken over.”

Raven considered this.

“Excellent.”

Tamar seemed to have no opinion about the colour of her clothes. She was equally happy in yellow, purple, cream, or black, provided that she was comfortable and somebody was paying attention to her. She particularly liked the stuffed owl, which became her first great companion. It was soft, slightly lopsided, and had yellow eyes that seemed to follow her around the room.

Raven took this as evidence of a special bond.

“She knows we’re alike,” she said one afternoon, as Tamar lay on a blanket staring at the owl.

“Neither of you has said a word,” Miriam observed.

“We communicate on a deeper level.”

“She has just tried to eat its foot.”

“That’s a private matter between them.”

As Tamar grew, Raven read to her. Not only children’s books, although there were plenty of those, but little stories about night, stars, strange creatures, old folktales, and people who were misunderstood because they looked different.

She told Tamar that owls were interesting, bats were useful, moths were beautiful, and people did not have to be frightening simply because they were unfamiliar.

When Tamar was old enough to point at pictures, Raven encouraged her to ask questions.

“What is that?”

“A bat.”

“Why?”

“Because it has wings and flies at night.”

“Why?”

“Because it has evolved to live that way.”

“Why?”

Raven looked at Miriam.

“She is very good at this.”

“You wanted her to be curious.”

“I was expecting a gradual introduction.”

Miriam laughed. “You should have chosen your words more carefully.”

Raven leaned closer to Tamar.

“Very well, little Nyx. Let us discuss evolutionary biology.”

Tamar clapped.

Raven looked triumphant.

Miriam, who was beginning to suspect that her daughter might inherit both her own stubbornness and Eitan’s appetite for questions, quietly fetched another cup of tea.

The first time Tamar said “Auntie Raven,” Raven cried.

It happened on an ordinary afternoon, which was perhaps why it mattered so much.

Tamar was sitting on the sitting-room rug, surrounded by wooden blocks. She had become a determined little person who liked to stack things, knock them down, and repeat the process with a concentration that suggested she was conducting important experiments.

Raven was sitting opposite her, wearing a black T-shirt with a silver moth on it.

“Can you give Auntie Raven the blue block?” she asked.

Tamar picked up a red block.

“That’s a very nice red block,” Raven said. “But I did ask for blue.”

Tamar considered the red block, then dropped it into Raven’s lap.

“Thank you.”

Tamar looked at her.

“Auntie.”

Raven went still.

Miriam, who was folding laundry on the sofa, raised her head.

“What did you say, darling?”

Tamar pointed at Raven.

“Auntie Raven.”

Raven put both hands over her mouth.

“Oh, no,” Miriam said affectionately. “You’ve done it now.”

Raven’s eyes filled with tears.

“I am not crying.”

“You are absolutely crying.”

“I have something in my eye.”

“Both eyes?”

“It’s a very large something.”

Tamar crawled across the rug and pulled herself up against Raven’s knee. Raven gathered her close, burying her face in the baby’s hair.

For a moment, she could not speak.

She had been there when Miriam believed that no one would ever choose her. She had sat with her in cafés, listened to her fears, encouraged her to buy pretty things for herself, and reminded her that she was allowed to take up space in the world.

She had stood beside Miriam at the wedding, watched her become a mother, and promised herself that she would be there for this little girl, too.

But she had never quite dared to imagine how it would feel to be named by Tamar herself.

Not a title bestowed by an adult out of kindness. Not a place assigned to her because she was a friend of the family.

Auntie Raven.

She belonged.

Miriam crossed the room and sat beside them.

“You know you’re stuck with us now,” she said softly.

Raven wiped her eyes.

“I was under the impression that I was already stuck with you.”

“You are. Now there’s a small person who will expect you to turn up with books and presents.”

“And excellent stories.”

“And excellent stories.”

“And possibly a bat.”

“Possibly a bat.”

Raven kissed Tamar’s head.

“Then I suppose I had better take my responsibilities seriously.”

Tamar patted Raven’s cheek, apparently satisfied with the arrangement.

By the time Tamar was a toddler, curiosity had become her defining characteristic.

She wanted to know what everything was, what it did, how it worked, and why it could not be taken apart immediately.

She was particularly fascinated by doors.

Doors opened. Doors closed. Doors had hinges. Doors had handles. Doors separated rooms. Doors sometimes refused to open because somebody had foolishly installed a lock above the reach of a toddler.

Tamar found this last feature of domestic architecture unacceptable.

Eitan tried to explain the concept of privacy.

Tamar listened, then attempted to open the door again.

“Some things,” Eitan told Miriam one evening, “cannot be explained to a two-year-old.”

“Have you tried a diagram?”

“I have considered a small model.”

“Of course you have.”

He did, in fact, make a little wooden model of a door and its hinges. Tamar adored it. For nearly a week, she played with it happily, opening and closing it, studying the hinges, and making small noises of satisfaction.

Then she discovered that the real door was much larger.

Eitan watched her march across the sitting room towards it.

“I have created a monster.”

Miriam kissed his cheek.

“No. You’ve created an engineer.”

He looked thoughtful.

“Perhaps we should be concerned.”

Tamar’s vocabulary expanded at a remarkable rate. She learned the names of the people around her, the objects in the flat, the foods she liked, and the foods she had decided were unacceptable. She developed strong opinions about which book should be read at bedtime and would correct her parents if they attempted to skip a page.

She loved Shabbat.

At first, it was the candles, the songs, the familiar faces, and the special food. She liked watching Miriam cover her eyes and hearing Eitan make Kiddush. She liked the challah, although she was not always convinced that it needed to be shared with everyone else at the table.

As she grew older, she began to join in the songs. Her words were sometimes incomplete, and she occasionally inserted the name of a stuffed animal into a melody, but she sang with tremendous confidence.

At the table, she sat between her parents in her little chair and listened to the conversation. Sometimes she asked questions that were impossible to answer briefly.

“Why do we bless the wine?”

“Because we use it to mark the holiness and joy of Shabbat,” Eitan explained.

“Why?”

“Because Shabbat is a special day.”

“Why?”

Miriam gave Eitan a sympathetic look.

He took a breath.

“Because we believe that the world is not only something to use and work in. It is also something to stop and appreciate.”

Tamar considered this.

Then she pointed at the challah.

“Why bread?”

Miriam laughed. “That, darling, is an excellent question.”

They did not always know what to tell her. Sometimes they explained what they believed. Sometimes they admitted that people had different answers. Sometimes they told her that she was too young to understand all the details, but that she could keep asking.

Tamar accepted this provisionally.

Then she asked another question.

Raven was frequently present for these conversations, though she offered a different perspective.

One afternoon, Tamar found a moth resting on the balcony wall. She crouched beside it, watching its wings open and close.

“Pretty,” she whispered.

“Very pretty,” Raven agreed, crouching beside her.

“Is it a fairy?”

“No. It’s a moth.”

“Why?”

“Because it is an insect.”

“Why?”

Raven smiled.

“Because it belongs to a group of living things with six legs, and it grows in a very particular way.”

Tamar looked at the moth.

“Does it have a name?”

“Not one that we know.”

Tamar thought for a moment.

“Nyx.”

Raven turned to look at her.

“Nyx?”

Tamar nodded, delighted with herself.

Miriam, listening from the doorway, felt a small ache of tenderness.

Tamar knew her Hebrew name. She knew that she was Tamar, named in the Jewish tradition and welcomed into the community. She also knew that Raven sometimes called her Nyx, and that it was a name from a story about night, given to her with love.

To Tamar, there was no contradiction.

There were different names for different parts of her world. There were songs she sang with her parents and stories she heard with her aunt. There were traditions that belonged to her family and questions that belonged to her alone.

She was being raised in a home that took Judaism seriously, without teaching her that everything unfamiliar must be feared.

Miriam and Eitan did not always agree on every question. They talked about what they believed, what they knew, what they did not know, and how they would answer Tamar as she grew. They wanted her to have a Jewish home full of Torah, mitzvot, learning, and the rhythms of the calendar. They also wanted her to understand that goodness was not measured by how easily she could fit into somebody else’s expectations.

They hoped she would be kind.

They hoped she would be brave.

And they hoped that, when she encountered something she did not understand, she would have the courage to ask a question before deciding what to think of it.

Raven, for her part, hoped Tamar would never become embarrassed by the fact that her aunt had purple hair.

This hope was fulfilled, though not in the way Raven expected.

When Tamar was nearly three, she looked at Raven’s hair one morning and asked, “Why purple?”

“Because I like it,” Raven explained.

Tamar nodded solemnly.

Then she pointed at her own brown hair.

“Why brown?”

“Because that’s the colour it grows.”

Tamar frowned.

“Can I have purple?”

“Perhaps when you’re older.”

Tamar considered this.

“Today?”

Raven laughed so hard she had to sit down.

Miriam, who had been preparing breakfast, called from the kitchen, “Do not encourage her.”

“I am encouraging independent thought.”

“You are encouraging hair dye in a nursery.”

“Both can be true.”

Eitan appeared holding a plate of sliced fruit.

“I think purple would suit her.”

Miriam stared at him.

“Eitan.”

“What? I have an eye for colour.”

“You are not helping.”

Tamar looked between them, then announced, “Purple!”

Raven raised her hand for a high five.

Tamar slapped it enthusiastically.

Miriam shook her head, smiling, and went back to breakfast.

The years did not transform their life into something perfect. They transformed it into something familiar.

The apartment acquired the gentle disorder of a home with a small child. There were books in unexpected places, wooden blocks beneath the sofa, a little coat hanging beside Eitan’s dark green jackets, and a collection of stuffed animals that seemed to multiply whenever Raven visited.

The owl remained. The bat remained. New creatures joined them: a fox, a hedgehog, a moth with silver wings, and a small black cat that Raven declared to be Tamar’s familiar, a term Eitan insisted on explaining in its historical rather than supernatural sense.

Miriam’s mother continued to bring food. Eitan’s mother continued to offer practical advice. Both grandfathers discovered that a toddler who wanted to hear a story could keep a man occupied for an entire afternoon. The synagogue community watched Tamar grow with the affectionate interest of people who had once celebrated her naming and now had to dodge her energetic attempts to greet everyone at kiddush.

She became known for asking questions during the most inconvenient moments.

At the rabbi’s house, she wanted to know why the mezuzah was on the doorpost.

At the market, she wanted to know why the fish were dead.

At the playground, she wanted to know why another child had cried when she took his shovel, and then why she had to give it back.

At bedtime, she wanted to know whether the moon could see her.

Eitan did his best.

Miriam did her best.

Raven offered stories.

And when the answers were insufficient, Tamar asked again.

They never succeeded in making her stop.

They came to regard this as one of her finest qualities.

One evening, when Tamar was a little over three, the three of them sat together on the balcony after Shabbat dinner. Tamar had finally fallen asleep, exhausted by a day spent visiting grandparents, singing songs, and asking why the rosemary plant smelled different when its leaves were rubbed between her fingers.

The city glowed beyond the stone walls. Somewhere in the neighbourhood, a child was still playing in the street. The air was cool, and the little balcony smelled of rosemary and the last flowers of the season.

Miriam leaned against Eitan’s shoulder.

Inside, a small black bat lay abandoned on the sitting-room rug. A picture book had been left open beside it. The nursery shelf was crowded with owls, moths, stars, and other creatures that Raven had brought over the years.

“She is a very happy child,” Miriam said.

“I think so.”

“She asks so many questions.”

“She does.”

“I hope we don’t teach her to stop.”

Eitan turned his head to look at her.

“We won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

No,” he admitted. “But we can try. We can answer when we can, admit when we don’t know, and let her see us change our minds when we learn something new.”

Miriam smiled.

“You make parenting sound like a philosophical discipline.”

“It is a philosophical discipline. It also involves cleaning porridge out of hair.”

“Perhaps the porridge is the more important part.”

“Perhaps.”

They sat quietly for a while.

Miriam thought of the woman she had once been: the young woman who had cried on a bus after another failed shidduch, who had believed that her life could not truly begin until someone chose her. She wished she could go back and tell that woman what was waiting for her—not merely the marriage or the baby, but the life she would learn to build.

She would tell her that she was already worthy of love.

That there would be difficult days and that she would sometimes be lonely, even in a full house. That being a good wife would not mean never needing anything, and being a good mother would not mean never becoming tired. That love was not a reward for getting everything right.

She would tell her that the people who mattered would not require her to become smaller in order to fit beside them.

Eitan took her hand.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Everything.”

“That is a large subject.”

“I have a good teacher.”

He smiled and kissed her.

From inside the flat came a sleepy little voice.

“Imma?”

Miriam and Eitan both turned.

Tamar stood in the doorway, hair tousled, one hand holding the stuffed owl by its wing. She blinked at them in the balcony light.

“What’s the matter, darling?” Miriam asked.

Tamar padded towards them.

“I had a dream.”

“Was it a good dream?”

Tamar considered this with great seriousness.

“There was a bat.”

“Was it a friendly bat?” Eitan asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“And Auntie Raven.”

Miriam smiled. “Was Auntie Raven in the dream with the bat?”

“Yes.”

“What were they doing?”

Tamar climbed into her mother’s lap and tucked the owl beneath her chin.

“Questions.”

Eitan looked at Miriam.

Miriam looked at Eitan.

Then they both began to laugh, softly enough not to frighten the child.

“Of course there were questions,” Miriam whispered.

Tamar settled against her, warm and drowsy. Eitan wrapped an arm around them both.

In the morning, Raven would probably arrive with another book. She would sit on the rug and read to Tamar, and Tamar would interrupt her every few sentences to ask why. Raven would answer, or invent a story, or admit that she didn’t know. Miriam would make tea. Eitan would explain something about the architecture of the old city, whether anybody had asked or not. The grandparents would call. The synagogue would prepare for another Shabbat. The little flat would fill with the ordinary noises of a family.

There would be scraped knees and difficult questions, laughter and tears, forgotten shopping lists, family meals, books, songs, and the slow work of growing up.

Tamar would learn that she was Jewish, that she was loved, that the world was full of wonders, and that no question was made foolish simply because it was asked by someone small.

She would learn that her father loved old buildings and strange colours, that her mother could make a home feel welcoming to almost anyone, and that her aunt Raven believed even the darkest corners of a story might contain something beautiful.

And she would learn, long before she could put it into words, that she belonged to a family whose love did not depend on everyone being alike.

Miriam kissed the top of her daughter’s head.

“Come on, little one,” she murmured. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Tamar lifted her head.

“Why?”

Eitan sighed with theatrical resignation.

“Because,” he said, “it is bedtime.”

“Why?”

“Because it is late.”

“Why?”

Miriam stood up, carrying Tamar, and gave her husband a look of deep sympathy.

“You wanted an inquisitive child.”

“I did.”

“You wanted her to ask questions.”

“I did.”

“You explained the universe to her when she was four months old.”

“I may have contributed to the problem.”

“You certainly did.”

Tamar rested her head on her mother’s shoulder, smiling sleepily.

“Auntie Raven tomorrow?”

“Yes, darling,” Miriam said. “Auntie Raven tomorrow.”

Tamar closed her eyes.

Eitan followed them inside, smiling to himself. He turned off the balcony light, leaving the rosemary silhouetted against the Jerusalem night.

Their home grew quiet.

And in the little room with the owl, the bat, and the books waiting for tomorrow, Tamar slept soundly, loved beyond measure, while the world outside remained vast, mysterious, and full of questions.

They would help her explore it, one question at a time.

The air in the bedroom was thick with the scent of lavender and the lingering warmth of a summer night, but the atmosphere was charged with a very specific, shared electricity. Raven stood by the foot of the bed, her purple hair a vivid streak against the cream-colored walls, looking less like a guest and more like a witness to a sacred, if unconventional, rite. There was no awkwardness, only the profound intimacy of three people who had stripped away the layers of social expectation until only honesty remained.

“Are you sure about this?” Raven whispered, though her smile suggested she already knew the answer.

Miriam reached out, her fingers brushing Eitan’s as she looked at Raven. “We don’t want the world to tell us how to be a family,” Miriam replied softly. “We want to decide for ourselves what intimacy looks like.”

Eitan nodded, pulling Miriam closer. The act of inviting Raven into their most private sanctuary wasn’t about a lack of boundaries, but about expanding them. They wanted her there—not as a third participant in the physical act, but as a spiritual anchor, a reminder that their love was an open door. As Miriam and Eitan began the slow, rhythmic dance of trying for another child, Raven watched with a quiet, appreciative intensity. She wasn’t an intruder; she was the architect of the freedom that allowed them to be this bold. In the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the boundaries between friendship, family, and desire blurred into a single, warm, humming chord of acceptance.

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