I visited Dovi a week ago. We had an amazing time together. He asked for hugs and kisses, rummaged through the suitcase excitedly for his snacks, and spent an hour creating giant bubbles with the bubble kit I always bring. He danced around the couches, touching his forehead to the video monitor playing Uncle Moishy. He rewarded me with a few small surprises: new skills he’s mastered. I stifled my excitement when he went to the bathroom independently and soaped his hands. He insisted on dragging his suitcase when it was time to go back to his room, terrified of losing access to his snacks.

And then I sat in the car for the long trip home. I spent the next few days feeling sick, an unpleasant consequence of my monthly visits.

Yesterday his residence manager emailed beautiful snapshots of Dovi with his direct support workers. They were wearing matching fuchsia T-shirts with their names embossed in front. “Dovi did great today when Santa visited the house!” she wrote in the message. “He even got a holiday gift — a mini bubble machine!” Another photo had Dovi staring intently at the lights of the plastic holiday tree installed in the living room.

My heart constricted with a mixture of love and sadness.

It’s been a few years since Dovi moved into his residential school, with the guidance of our daas Torah. His quality of life has been tremendously enhanced. He’s achieved milestones and learned skills he’d never have mastered at home.

Our house was restored to normalcy. I can’t even remember that time when the walls and floors were covered with a hodgepodge of everything from ice cream to toothpaste. I can barely recall how he flooded the bathroom daily, how no one slept whenever Dovi decided to pull an all-nighter, how I lived in a knot of constant tension. Relegated to some distant corner of my brain is the thick piles of forms, IEPs, calendars, and schedules, and the never-ending juggling act to recruit and maintain a stream of caregivers to cover every minute there was no school.

On the rare occasion when I come face-to-face with a little boy like Dovi, my heart races. Tears threaten as I fight my impulse to hug the kid. I have to restrain myself from revealing that I, too, have a child like that at home. Correction: not in my home. He’s physically distant, but never out of my thoughts. I’m still his mother, only I now get to enjoy him during my two-hour monthly visits, and I don’t have to deal with the hard parts. I can be the doting grandmother who spoils her grandkid and gleefully leaves the disciplining to the parents.

I leave the grocery store and make my way home, still a little teary. Then it hits me. I know why I saw that little boy today! It’s public school holiday break! Instantly my brain shifts to the mother of the sweet child, empathizing with the load she carries whenever there’s no school. I definitely don’t miss that.

The menorahs on the windowsill wink at me. Dovi never got to light a menorah. It was so dangerous for him to be around candles that we’d put him to bed before we lit. Ironically, at his non-Jewish residential school he’ll now get that chance, with an electric menorah provided by the local Chabad shaliach. How I look forward to getting that picture in my inbox!

I haven’t said Hallel yet today. I have so much to be grateful for. I reach for my siddur.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 872)