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When Abigail is ten she waits outside, watching over David as her sister groans and screams and finally a baby’s piercing voice rings through the air, strong and healthy, and she can hear Zeruya soothing him, and finally her heart begins to unclench.
There is a lot to be done, and Abigail joins her bothers’ wives and her mother preparing for the birth celebration. One week later, it is over, and she has one more child to help watch over.
David takes to Joab immediately, his little fingers always so careful when he dares to touch the baby, avoiding his head just as Zeruya taught him to, bringing him small gifts: an interesting flower, a scrap of wool, a stone game-piece that Joab is too young to play with. It’s funny, almost, how besotted little David is. How much pride he takes in being an uncle.
Zeruya grins when Abigail mentions it. “You were exactly like that when David was born,” she points out.
Abigail frowns. “That little brat? I couldn’t have been.”
Zeruya laughs. “Exchange red hair for brown, and it’s you. You were so happy not to be the baby sister anymore, and it showed.”
Abigail rolls her eyes. As if Zeruya doesn’t think of her as her baby sister, still.
By the time he can crawl, Joab follows David around wherever he goes (or rather, as far as he can manage.) When he’s two, David will play to him, lulling him to sleep. By the time Joab is five, David is teaching him how to sling rocks with perfect precision, in case he ever needs to chase foxes away from the herd.
By the time he is eight, Abigail is with child herself. They are good boys, and do what they can to ease her discomfort – David because he could never do anything else, and Joab because if David does it, it must be the right thing to do. David is excited to be an uncle again. “You are an uncle nine times over,” Abigail points out.
He grins. “None of them are yours,” he says, something sweet and earnest in his face.
In the weeks before the birth, Zeruya asks her if she’s scared.
“Terrified,” Abigail admits.
“Trust in the Lord,” Zeruya advises with a small shrug. “It worked for mother eight times.”
Abigail supposes it couldn’t hurt.
When her son is born, beautiful and loud and beloved in a way she could hardly have imagined, his cousin and uncle ask to meet him as soon as they can, nervous and excited. Abigail can already tell, as they dote over him, and his tiny hands tightly grip outstretched fingers - this is going to be like baby Joab all over again.
She names him Amsa.
