She did not remove her cloak. She refused to come far enough inside to sit. To Rachel, Mary’s face bore the look of an unkept promise. “I cannot stay,” she told Rachel, and in the next breath she added, “You never knew what it means to be a mother. If you did, you would not have been able to abandon that child behind the market.” Rachel bristled. “You never knew what it means to be a mother.” They proceeded to quarrel. What counted as a mother was the subject. Rachel spoke first. “Are you a mother if you pluck a snail from the gutters and set it high so the rains will not drown it?” Mary scowled. “No, of course not. Don’t mock me.” “Are you a mother if you raise a brother?” “No, you are not.” “Are you a mother if you wish you were?” “No, no! That is not enough either.” “Are you a mother if you are a daughter?” “Now you are being ridiculous,” Mary complained. Rachel, more softly: “Are you a mother if you conceive a child?” “Not even then,”
