Was it her fault she felt everything so deeply? How could she explain to anyone that she simply couldn’t help getting affected by things?

“Your Holocaust reports are due next week Wednesday,” Mrs. Salomon announced as she closed her portfolio. “Class dismissed.”

There was a shuffle of desks and notebooks as the 12th graders packed up to leave.

“A ten-page report!” Zahava gushed. “Mrs. Salomon seriously thinks she’s the only teacher we have!”

“I don’t know about the rest of you guys, but I’m not sleeping this week.”

Shiri glanced around. Was she the only one feeling this way? Sure, she felt overwhelmed about having to write a ten-page report, but was she the only one who saw this as the least of the problems with today’s lesson? Was she the only one with a sick feeling in her stomach that just wouldn’t go away?

During the Holocaust, girls her age didn’t have to write ten-page reports. In fact, they didn’t have to write any reports at all. Instead, they had to do other things. Just thinking about those things made Shiri feel sick and nauseous and… She grabbed her schoolbag and hurried out of the classroom and out of the building — she was in desperate need of air.

Shiri’s mother placed a full plate of spaghetti and meatballs in front of her. “Thanks, Mommy,” Shiri said. She picked up her fork and moved the meatballs around on her plate.

“Aren’t you hungry?” her mother asked. Her brother and two sisters were happily enjoying their family’s favorite dish.

Shiri shrugged. “I guess not.” She stared down at the colossal meatballs on her plate. During the Holocaust, girls her age were hanged for eating potato peels from the garbage.

“Shiri, is it true your class has to write a ten-page Holocaust report?” Shiri’s sister Nechama asked.

“Unfortunately,” Shiri replied, still toying with her meatballs.

“Looks like you’re really nervous about it,” 19-year-old Miriam remarked.

Shiri shrugged again. “I guess.” She finally stuffed a piece of meatball into her mouth. She swallowed. “Isn’t it horrible what our people went through?” she suddenly blurted out. “I mean, it just makes me feel sick.” She pushed her plate away.

“Don’t think about it,” Miriam commanded. “Or it really will make you sick! You’re just too sensitive.”

“Whatever,” Shiri mumbled. She pushed back her chair and went to her room.

Don’t think about it. That was easy for Miriam to say. How many times in her life had she been told she’s too sensitive? How many times a week? Or a day? She was sick and tired of hearing it. Was it her fault she felt everything so deeply? How could she explain to her resilient sister, or to anyone else, that she simply couldn’t help getting affected by things? She wished she could be strong like other people. She wished there wouldn’t be something so seriously wrong with her.