Should I have swallowed my self-respect in the face of his generosity? 

R

othschild TLV, eight thirty. Be ON TIME!

“Blah blah blah,” I say maturely. Then I roll my eyes for good measure. I love that my brothers and I are close, but there’s bossy and then there’s overbearing, and my brothers like to dance on that very delicate difference.

Am I ever late? I tap back, smirking. That should keep them laughing.

I won’t even answer that.

Ha, I’m going to give Dovi an ulcer one of these days.

Although family gatherings on Thursday nights aren’t great for my health, either. Who, exactly, is going to be cooking and cleaning while I’m watching the men drink cocktails in the private room at an upscale restaurant? But since I’m the only one without cleaning help, I’m sure no one considered the inconvenience of it all. #storyofmylife.

Chezky strolls into the room, sipping a Coke Slurpee he picked up on his way back from the hospital. I used to tell him not to drink caffeine right before his naps, but he has now grown impervious to caffeine’s effects. Or alarm clocks. Or earthquakes, for that matter. There is no waking the man after a shift.

The only tried-and-true method is letting twin toddler girls run loose on his chest.

“Uncle Shmuel is in New York from England for a few days. He’s holding court at eight thirty,” I say dryly. “Don’t be late.”

Chezky grins. “Am I ever late?”

I don’t explain why I’m cracking up as I run to pick up the twins from playgroup while he grabs a quick post-shift nap.