“It’s still excessive spending.”

I felt a sudden urge to defend my sister and her clientele. “There’s nothing wrong with liking nice things. People are entitled to make their own decisions.”

Gosh, if Yocheved would hear me say this. Talk about being the devil’s advocate.

Shlomo eyed me curiously. “You don’t think this plan is a good idea?” he asked.

“It is,” I said quickly. “I’m just saying, you can’t go bashing that whole lifestyle.”

“It’s not bashing. We’re offering a relief package, for people—”

I waved him off. “I know what you’re offering, and I’m all for it. You know that.” I paused, reaching for the oil. “I need to think about this, okay?”

Shlomo nodded and sat down at the table. I turned back to the stove, heating oil in a frying pan for the schnitzel.

Chana Dratler, Tzirel’s mother. I pictured her face, squirming under Yocheved’s disarming smile.

I pictured Mrs. Levinson, blinking as she pulled me aside. I replayed her questions. Her desperation. Her desire to make her daughter happy. The conversation floated in my head, almost accusingly.

The oil sizzled as I deposited the chicken in the pan.

There was something to be done. But I simply couldn’t do it.

***

“This kvass would make my Mama proud, Yelena,” said Anzel, plunking the jug onto the table.

I stuck a wooden spoon into the jug to mix the grainy particles that had settled on the bottom. “I hope I added enough raisins. Moriz likes it sweet.”

Benish walked into the dining room. “It’s perfect. I tasted some.”

I rolled my eyes. He didn’t have to tell me he’d tasted some. The boy gained a pound every time I blinked.

“When did he say he’ll be here?” asked Anzel.

“Eight o’clock.”

We all looked at our watches. It was 8:15.

The table looked beautiful. I’d set out my best porcelain dinnerware, prepared my son’s favorite dishes. Olivier salad, shchi, kotleti. Moriz had made us so proud at his graduation, and I’d insisted he come home for a dinner to celebrate. “He should be here any moment,” I said.

Anzel trudged out of the room. Benish drifted over to the couch with the paper.

8:20.

I walked around the table, straightened the napkins again.

“That’s what happens with boys who get educated,” Benish grunted. “They forget the time. They forget about everyone. Can I take some salad?”

I glared at him. “We’ll eat together. And Moriz is late because he’s a busy person. He has a degree. He works.”

As opposed to someone else I know.

“Right, remind me what he does again?”

I pressed my lips together. He didn’t deserve an answer.

I left the dining room. I couldn’t watch Benish, with his overgrown hair and vacant eyes, withering away on that couch like a yokel. A man of 32, four years older than his brother Moriz and nothing to show for it. He’d finally gotten married the year before, only to divorce five months later.

For a minute, I considered calling Moriz to ask where he was up to, but decided against it. He knew we were expecting him; he’d arrive when he’d arrive. I could get some mending work done meanwhile.

I headed over to my sewing room. Sewing room, eh. A sewing room with no sewing machine. There was a table and two chairs and some shelves for my sewing notions. I never got much done in this place.

Anzel poked his head into the room. “Gurski called me today,” he said. “You know, Mama’s neighbor?”

“Yes?”

“He caught Mama on the hallway steps. She slipped and nearly tumbled down the stairs.”

I sighed. “It’s happened so many times lately. She keeps losing her balance.”

“She needs to come live with us.”

I shook my head. “She needs lightbulbs in her stairwell.”

“Yelena.”

“I know, I know. But she doesn’t want to live here. You know that.”

“Okay, so maybe one of those ladies… You know, a home attendant. An aide maybe?”

“And maybe not,” I snapped. “How exactly will we pay this person?”

“We’ll have to — figure something out,” Anzel said. “I don’t know, what should we do?”

“We?” I cried. “Don’t say we. I’m at the sewing machine all day. I have piles of clothing I need to mend — when am I going to get to it? How about you do something for a change? I told you a hundred times. Sign up with Uber. Or Juno, or LYFT, or all of them. You drive for these companies, you make real money. When you sit and smoke and play chess in the dispatch station all day, you don’t make money.”

Anzel sagged into a chair. “Maybe I can help you mend.”

I pictured Anzel hiding out with me in Yocheved’s boutique after hours, spinning bobbins. “Right,” I said tersely. “I want to see you thread a needle.”

“Maybe I can work for Avigdor. Put taps on shoes, change watch batteries. I can do that.”

I scowled. I’ve been hearing the Avigdor line for so many years, I was done arguing with him. Anzel’s brother Avigdor barely repaired enough shoes to cover the cost of shoe polish. Had he been successful, we would’ve split the cost of Mama’s care, and we wouldn’t have faced this problem in the first place.

I heard the door open. I jumped up and passed right by Anzel, walking purposely to the entrance. There stood Moriz.

He was wearing a suit. He had a neat haircut. His eyes sparkled as he flashed a grin. “Hi, Mom.”

I pecked him on the cheek and ushered him in.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 646)