So I release my son — figuratively and emotionally — into the maelstrom, watching as my precious little boy cautiously dips his little toe into the big, wide sea of men.

The first hakafah begins, and my maternal angst thrums throughout my body.

All the memes I saw before Yom Tov, advocating to include those little boys who show up to shul without their fathers — have the men here seen those? Will they notice my little boy?

I blink, and Meir is nowhere to be seen. He is swept up in a swell of dancing men and bochurim, blending into the crowd.

I hadn’t given enough credit to the venerated rav, to this wonderful shul.

Meir surfaces eventually, and comes over to me. “Ma,” he says, exhilarated. “The bochurim were fighting over me by Moshe Emes!”

Another hakafah. The inclusive circle of shul members breaks apart, to be replaced by something — could it be? — even more magical. The rav is now dancing in the center, his face a fire of joy. Arms open in invitation, he’s surrounded by all the shul’s little boys. They dance, whirling around in the center circle, those who came with fathers and those who didn’t, joined as one.

I breathe in the beauty of this magnificent experience.

On our way home, Meir delightfully explains to me the difference between the way men and bochurim stamp their feet.  “See, Ma, bochurim stamp their feet much harder, like this. And I” — he glows with pride — “am like one of the bochurim.”

I can’t sleep. My earlier angst is replaced by overwhelming gratitude to Hashem. My little boy lives with so much loneliness, so much struggle. As a boy without a father living in his home, he feels so different from his peers.

But tonight, he belonged.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 862)