When babies grow up, people lose interest.” He patted her head and told her not to worry. That evening, Ruth complained to her father about the fuss everyone made. But Ruth had a glimmer of what the “finally” meant. Ruth’s mother was too distracted to notice the pitying looks her older daughter received from the downstairs neighbors. Keinehora, Florence!” one of the cousins shouted. “What do you call the color of those curls? Reddish like that-isn’t there a name for it? And my God, those eyes! Who knew eyes could be so blue. Packed into the small front room, nibbling on kichel and sipping glasses of tea, the visitors stared at the baby like tourists in a museum. When Ruth’s mother felt up to it, she invited a small group of friends and relatives to the apartment. It didn’t take long for Ruth to realize her mistake. She would love books and numbers, and the two of them would be inseparable. She would have straight hair, brown eyes, and a soft, gentle voice. Like most firstborn children, Ruth assumed her younger sibling would be a miniature version of herself. Ruth was three years old when her sister was born.
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