“That day, that day that I left,” Benny said suddenly. “I never really told you about it”

“Here, Miriam, this setting still needs a spoon,” Tziporah said, pointing at the dining room table.

Miriam carefully placed a spoon in the empty spot.

“Now napkins, right?” she said. “Can we do the ones with the purple flowers?”

Tziporah nodded and counted out four napkins, then pulled Momo’s highchair in from the kitchen. They had made early Shabbos so the kids would be awake and alert. “They’re going to be the stars this time,” Benny had said this morning. “It’s gonna be all about the family.”

Now the door opened and Benny and Yehuda entered. No honor guard of bochurim behind them, no admiring crowd filling the room.

“Good Shabbos,” Benny greeted her, his voice just a tiny bit tentative. She smiled back. They could do this.

Benny’s voice sounded a little lonely as he sang Shalom Aleichem without harmony or backup. But it was beautiful this way too, with nothing masking the strong, clear notes of his sweet tenor.

Yehuda bounded over with his parshah sheet right after the challah. Benny went through each question, and Yehuda beamed as each “great job!” resounded in the almost-empty room.

Tziporah cleared the fish plates and brought in the soup. “Here, I’ll feed the baby,” Benny said, bringing the highchair closer to his seat. Momo giggled as Benny swooped spoonful after spoonful of soup into his mouth. He didn’t complain when, after most of the bowl was finished, Tziporah took him out of the highchair, cleaned his face, and got him ready for bed.

She returned to the table and found Miriam snuggling into Benny’s shoulder as Yehuda recounted the backstory of his parshah project.

“Oy Miriam, you look so tired,” Tziporah said. “Let me bring you your blanket.”

“I’ll do it,” Benny offered. He stood, slid Miriam gently onto the couch, and went to fetch her blanket. She closed her eyes as he spread it over her and was asleep in minutes.

Yehuda joined Miriam on the couch after three bites of chicken. Now it was just Tziporah and Benny sitting together. At first there was the food to keep them occupied. But soon enough, Tziporah was full. She put down her fork and looked around the room: the two little ones breathing softly on the couch, the ceiling fan overhead at its slightly skewed angle, the Shabbos candles flickering valiantly on their shelf. And her husband, very flawed but trying hard, sitting there with her at the table.

“That day, that day that I left,” Benny said suddenly. “I never really told you about it.”