Nine writers recount their search for chometz — and what they found

As told to Miriam Klein Adelman

IT

was five years ago, this March, when my 20-year-old daughter, Rina, refused to get out of bed one morning for work. She didn’t emerge the next day, or the one following that. First it was a headache, then a stomachache, until she stopped offering excuses altogether. She’d simply turn her head to the wall and not answer me. My husband and I were at a loss.

After much prodding, she agreed to speak to a professional, but when she returned from her session, she started to spew angry words — at me. She said I never loved her. She said I made fun of her to her friends. She said I was a selfish mother.  I was devastated. But the biggest blow was yet to come: My husband took her side.

He told me afterward he didn’t really believe her but felt it would help her recovery to give the impression he did. Still, it felt like the ultimate sting. I’m not going to pretend I was a perfect mother. But I knew my husband’s way of dealing with the situation was a mistake. We had to present a united front.