What could possibly happen in a small neighborhood garden? Nothing. Everything. Before us is a modest green spot, one of dozens of similar spots in the city. The place is not particularly ugly, and it does not stand out in any way that can be pointed out. A transit area, a drain for random children playing. And in particular – the meeting place of one of the inferior classes in the history of modern literature and in social discourse in general: mothers with strollers. Our character is deep in the path of motherhood: trying to navigate her saturated life, searching for and writing fragments of time that she steals from her fragmented everyday life: the rhythm of the book as the rhythm of life. From the garden, the character's memories burst out to other characters – mother, grandmothers, friends, also memories from different countries, and different times. She visits the garden, and therefore, dialogues of other mothers with other strollers infiltrate her story. What are they talking about? Dreaming? What are they hiding? The author wears the hat of the voyeur, the urban detective. She deciphers the genetic code of this time, because the garden serves as a microcosm of the world.