I’d sent a generous sum of money earmarked for Yom Tov clothing, and let my ex do what she wanted with it

Reuvy: They’re my children, and I want to give them everything I can.

Chedva: They’re part of a new family now, and you’re breaking it apart.

Reuvy

Ialways felt self-conscious, sitting in the ice cream parlor on my own with two kids. Like the whole setup just screamed “divorced dad having his visitation.”

Of course, it wasn’t really true. Plenty of fathers take their kids out alone; there’s nothing really attention-calling about it. And the kids — not really kids anymore, Chaya’s already a teenager and Shmuli’s not far behind — loved going out for ice cream. At home, they didn’t get such luxuries, apparently.

“Pizza or ice cream?” I asked them, when they got into the car together one February afternoon. “You guys hungry?”

“Starving,” Shmuli grumbled melodramatically. “Can I get a whole pie for myself?”

Chaya wrinkled her nose. “You can have my portion of pizza. I just want a salad. And ice cream,” she added hopefully.

“Pizza and ice cream, okay,” I said agreeably. Why not? Fifty bucks to make their day.

We headed for the nearest pizza parlor. I ordered a pie, a salad, fries, onion rings, and drinks. That should be enough for supper even for Shmuli; we’d do ice cream for dessert.

“Yum,” Shmuli said, piling a plate with three slices of pizza and a generous helping of fries. “When we order in pizza at home, we never get the sides. M— I mean, we just make oven fries and stuff.”

“Well, why spend double on something you can make just as easily yourself?” Chaya asked, nibbling daintily at her salad.

I could literally hear her mother’s voice: reasonable, practical, thrifty. We never could agree on the financial stuff. We were just made for different lifestyles.

“Anyway, when do we ever order in pizza? Like once a year for Chanukah?”

“I think the fries from the store are better,” Shmuli insisted. “Anyway, it’s more fun this way.” He’s my boy through and through; likes his restaurants, enjoys spending a bit of money instead of being uptight and budget-conscious all the time.

Chaya shrugged. “I’m not saying they’re not good, just that they cost so much money.”

M

oney, money, money. Every time I took them out, it came up. Here’s what I’ve noticed: Kids who grew up without are constantly thinking about money. Kids who grew up with whatever they need, some of what they want, all of that — they just don’t think about money that much. Honestly, I think it’s healthier. Time enough for money stress when they grow up.

“How about we just enjoy supper now that it’s here?” I suggested lightly. “And you guys can tell me what’s going on in school and everything.”

It was a good call. Chaya launched into some story about her teacher while Shmuli demolished half the pie. Then he told me some confusing account about a baseball game and his rebbi and the prize, and I pretended to know exactly what he was talking about, ignoring the twinge that reminded me that I didn’t live with him.