Aman wearing a pink “Bayla’s Bakery” hat and balancing six trays of cupcakes staggered through the door of the center.

“Who’s in charge here?” he called out from behind the trays.

Zevi was up on a ladder hanging a banner proclaiming “Big Bounce Therapy Center Welcomes Senator Pearl!” He nodded toward Aviva, who had just run in from the other room. “Catch her if you can.”

Aviva paused by the long buffet table, where Suri’s daughter, Miri, was arranging an elaborate candy platter. “I think it would look better if you stand up the lollipops in the center and scatter jelly beans around,” Aviva said.

Miri nodded and without a word started rearranging her design. Aviva watched her for a moment, a funny look on her face. She caught Zevi’s eye; he motioned to the man by the door.

“Ah, the cupcakes arrived. Good.” She pointed to the empty section of the table. “Careful with that tray — I don’t want the icing on the American flags to get smashed…. Ah, Yael, you’re here.”

She turned away from the cupcakes to greet a breathless Yael, running through the door.

“Sorry I’m late, I just—”

Aviva waved her hand. “Doesn’t matter.” She really didn’t want to hear yet another one of Yael’s excuses. The girl had a punctuality problem, plain and simple. “The pictures need to be hung up in the therapy room.”

Yael nodded and ran off. Aviva stood still a moment, swiped the sweat off her forehead, and looked around. Things were coming together nicely. It was a good idea she’d had, making the senator’s visit into a children’s extravaganza. They’d invited all the children and parents to a party at the clinic. They’d hired a magician for entertainment, and Yael would be running arts and crafts projects. When the senator came, he’d see a fun, happening center, and they’d have a large, excited crowd to greet him.

As she swiveled around the room, a chair suddenly materialized behind her. With a slight frown, she sat down. Counted one, two, three. Sure enough, within five seconds a drink of water had arrived as well, presented with a flourish by her husband.

“Zevi,” she sighed. “You made me rest and take a drink just 15 minutes ago.”

“So that means you’ve been running around 15 minutes too long. Should I bring you a stool to lift up your feet?”

She clenched her teeth. Planning this event had definitely been the magic pill that broke her out of her self-pitying mode and got her to move past her morning sickness. (As always, her mother had been right.) In the thrill of the bustle and activity, she could almost forget she was pregnant — if not for Zevi, dogging her every move and making her feel like an invalid.

Worse… like a child.

She spoke softly so that no one else would hear. “What would you have me do? Stay at home for nine months kicking back my feet?”

“Why not?” he said agreeably. “Work is highly overrated anyway.”