Perri silently cheered for her son. For their chinuch. At least they’d gotten it right with one of their kids

Those first few minutes after serving the soup were the quietest of the whole Shabbos, Perri often thought. Tonight the silence felt even more pronounced: There had been nonstop talking since the men returned home from shul. Now, all she heard was spoons clinking and the occasional slurp from a little boy (or a big one who should know better).

“Delicious soup,” Tatty said, first to finish.

“Can I bring you some more?” Perri swiftly offered.

Tatty avoided Mommy’s eyes. “That would be great. Just not a full bowl.”

“And no kneidel this time,” Mommy added as she grabbed the container of bright yellow soup nuts and very intentionally handed it to Shloimy. “Here, Shloimele, send this down to the end of the table, to the little kids. There’s more food coming, remember?”

“Zeidy, is it true you were in Bnei Brak yesterday with Tatty?” Yehuda asked as Perri took her father-in-law’s bowl and headed toward the kitchen.

“It is.”

“And who did you get into? Which gedolim?” Perri heard him ask.

She missed the next chunk of conversation. When she returned with the half bowl of soup, Yehuda was leaning in toward her father-in-law, listening avidly to his description of the scene.

“And he said, you know what America really stands for? Am reikah. It’s all empty there. So of course I’m nodding my head, but I’m thinking, does he know how much I’m paying Meilech Wasserman to get me in here? You can call us Americans empty, but you know our pockets aren’t. Ha!” Tatty locked eyes with Yehuda triumphantly, waiting for a laugh.

Yehuda shrugged. “You know he meant in ruchniyus, right, Zeidy?”

Perri silently cheered for her son. For their chinuch. At least they’d gotten it right with one of their kids.