Libby was nowhere to be seen and Vanessa was serving the kids milk and cookies in the orangery; they’d opened the roof because it was finally warming up, but honestly, it looked like rain.

“Close the roof,” he said by way of greeting.

“Please,” he added hastily, as the maid pursed her lips.

“Thanks, Vanessa.” He was terrible. Snapping at the help, not saying hi to his kids.

He looked at them, so adorable, so little, so confident as they dipped their snack in the milk, not noticing the maid wiping up the spills as they created them.

“Any cookies left for me?” he said in a terrible Cookie Monster drawl. The kids had no idea whose voice he was imitating — they were far more sheltered than Akiva and his siblings had ever been — but they cracked up and jumped up to feed him bits of chocolate chip bars.

He plopped onto the chaise and let his kids swarm over him like bees to honey.

And while he tickled Mali until she got the hiccups, he wondered if one day he, too, would be shutting down his kids’ creative ideas… in the name of being a Frankel.

Whenever Daddy showed up at Akiva’s home office, Akiva suddenly felt unmoored, like a stranger in his own home.

Daddy never actually sat in Akiva’s giant cherry leather chair, but Akiva felt silly sitting in it when his father was there, so they both ended up perching uncomfortably on the twin brown armchairs opposite the desk.

Mali was busy telling her grandfather a very long-winded story about Rachelli Kantor’s new doll.

“It’s called a Cry Baby. Which also, Zeidy, is not a nice thing to call someone.” She nodded wisely, patted her grandfather’s cheek, and hopped off his lap and out of the office.

He laughed and smoothed an imaginary crease out of his pants. “That one’s a Frankel for sure. Going to be CEO by the time she’s bas mitzvah.”

Chas v’shalom, Akiva thought. Out loud, he laughed carelessly. “Chip off the old block. So what’s doing, Daddy?”

He sat back, seemingly at ease, long legs stretched out. This is my home, his body language said.

Wait your turn to speak, said his mind.

Yehuda Frankel sighed and took off his glasses, polished them, and put them back on.

“I need you to show Menashe the ropes. He’s been living in la-la land these past few years. I need you to show him what’s what, yes? And maybe Libby can invite Dassi and the kids over. Let’s get them settled. She seems a bit mopey since they landed — let’s nip that in the bud.”

Because G-d forbid a Frankel would mope.

Akiva rotated a crick out of his neck. “Sure, Daddy.”

He took a deep breath. Here goes….

“Dad, can we circle back to the BIM I mentioned in Florida? Like I said, Dallard uses it, as do Cohen and Clark, and—”

Daddy was holding up his hand, reading something on his phone.

“Oy, Charlie never picked up Zeidy for the Congregation Yisrael brunch. Let me arrange something else. Akiva, drop it.”

The door burst open then, and a stranger flew into the office, a stranger with Deena’s eyes and long thick ponytail, but this child was smiling in a deep glowing way that Akiva’s own daughter had not in a very, very long time.

“Tatty! Hi, Zeidy, how are you?”

She rushed on, not waiting for an answer, pushing her hair impatiently out of her eyes.

“Tatty, you won’t believe it. I always get stuck with flute at music hall, but today no one was at the drums, so, like, I just went over, picked up the sticks, and it was sick, like my hands just knew what to do.

“Mrs. Hersh was going wild, she said she literally never saw someone with such raw talent and—”

Yehuda stood up and gave his granddaughter a kiss atop her head. “Deena, Frankels don’t play drums. But channel that energy into something appropriate and you are going to go far, sweetheart. I love you.

“Bye, Akiva, goodnight, Deens!”

And he strode out, trampling on one teenage girl’s dreams as he left.

“Tatty?”

Ohhh, he shouldn’t look her directly in the eyes. It was like an eclipse. If he looked, he’d be burned.

“No, Deens,” he said firmly.

“Tatty, please? Please?!”

He hated himself, but he knew what he had to do. “You heard Zeidy, sweetheart. Frankels… don’t play drums,” he finished quietly.

“I hate being a Frankel!” she yelled, her eyes flashing wildly. She pushed past him and ran out of the room.

He heard her sobs reverberating through the house.

He sighed deeply. And he wondered what Yehuda Frankel would say if he knew his eldest son had spent shanah alef in Israel learning drums in Rabbi Friedlander’s miklat every Tuesday evening.

His daughter wasn’t the only one with raw talent.

“He wouldn’t even listen to me!”

“Shhh,” Libby hushed him, looking around Cookout nervously.

All the other diners were eating their overpriced ribs, oblivious of the angst at the Frankels’ table, but still, a Frankel could never be too careful.

“No, Libby, I’m serious. I felt like I was three years old and shouting inappropriate words during Krias HaTorah.”

Libby giggled. “Was that something you did?”

Akiva’s face creased into a tired smile. “Maybe.”

They laughed and then grew serious.

“Akiva, your father hates change. Let the seeds grow roots. You mentioned it twice. Take a break, wait two weeks, mention it lightly again, in passing. Then again in two weeks. Eventually, he’ll come around.”

The waiter brought their steaks and cocktails. They nodded their thanks.

Akiva picked up a fry, pointed it at his wife.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you are one smart woman?”

Libby smiled. “Oh, maybe once or twice.”

Akiva took a deep breath, and then exhaled long and slow. Taking a sip of his Aperol spritz, he looked at his phone.

And choked.

“What on earth?!”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 971)