We did Kadeish, then Urchatz, Karpas — all with slight tweaks I was willing to get used to. I’m a good wife. Then came Yachatz.

My husband split the matzah into two equal halves. We determined which one was bigger. He put the smaller piece into our brand new ke’arah. He carefully placed the bigger one into a Ziploc bag and then into the cloth bag of a school project. He gave a little speech about saving it for later because it’s very important. He put it into his kittel and turned the page of the Haggadah.

My children looked around, unsure of what to do now. We’d been at Bobby and Zaidy’s seder the year before, where Yachatz was not quite so solemn an affair. What was going on?

“Go get it!” I hissed at my second-grader.

He looked from me to my husband.

“Go get it!” I whispered to the child on my left. “Right now! You saw where Tatty put it! Just go!”

They went.

My husband held on to it tightly for a minute before he gave in. We won! The afikomen was in our hands.

The Seder was suspended as we held a conference about where to put it. We compromised by promising to move it to a more secure spot when Tatty wasn’t looking, and the children spent the rest of night transferring the matzah from place to place as I kvelled. Nothing like passing down mesorah.

As I cleaned up from the vestiges of a Shulchan Oreich that no one ate, I heard the children conferring among themselves. What would they do when Tatty requested his dessert?

“You know what?” I said. “Give it to me. I’ll take care of it.”

They knew I was on their side, and they handed it to me unblinkingly. We moved back to the table to begin negotiations.

“I want a bike!”

“Roller blades!”

“A real stroller for my doll!”

My husband was about to give in when I pulled the afikomen bag from behind my back. “Oh, no!” I told my stunned audience. “You don’t have the afikomen. I do.”

My husband laughed and promised the children they could have what they’d asked for. Then he stretched out his hand.

“Well?” I asked. “What are you going to give me?” Like I said, he puts up with a lot.

“I want to go to a hotel for a day,” I continued. “I want to leave one night at nine p.m. and come back the next night at nine p.m. when everyone is in bed and the kitchen is clean.”

“Sure,” he replied. “Great idea. We haven’t gotten away in a while. It’s getting late, though. Can you pass the afikomen?”

But I held it tight. “I don’t want to go on vacation with you!”

My husband looked aghast. I could see his life flashing before his eyes. Were we really having this conversation in front of the children?

I took pity on him and laughed. “I love you” — a nod to include my children — “but I want one day. One day with responsibilities to nothing and nobody.”

He looked wary, but chatzos was creeping closer.

Halachah was on my side.

It’s been eight years. We do the afikomen my way.
But I’ve yet to redeem my prize. Ff

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 939)