The six shiny bowls sat majestically on the kitchen counter glittering in the Shabbos morning light. They were arranged according to the ages of Mrs. Bernstein’s six children. Each bowl was a different shade of bright colorful glaze. They looked more like precious jewels than mundane cereal receptacles.

I was at the Bernsteins’ for a small kiddush in honor of the yahrtzeit of Mrs. Bernstein’s mother.

When Mrs. Bernstein came to see me two weeks later I casually said “You have a beautiful set of personalized cereal bowls in your house; I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more exquisite set of breakfast dishes!”

I was surprised when tears welled up in her eyes.

“I’m sorry if I touched a sore point” I said. “Were the bowls a gift from your mother?”

More tears.

“I’m really sorry” I said. “Forget I asked. We don’t have to discuss the bowls.”

“No” she insisted. “It’s actually good you brought it up. Those bowls are very dear to me and they do remind me of my mother but not in the way you think.

“I grew up in a financially stable home. My father was a whiz at real estate and we lived in a big fancy home with many rooms. I’m the youngest of five and by the time I was born my mother was already working in my father’s office. She managed the properties and was responsible for investing millions of dollars. She had the names of all the tenants and their rent status at her fingertips. My father would come into the office and ask her if she had information for this building inManhattanor this property inBrooklynand in a second she’d located the file. My father relied so heavily on her that by the time she was expecting me we had a full-time housekeeper. Her name was Cassandra and she was fromHaiti.

“Cassandra was dedicated to all of us; especially me. She gave us breakfast every morning as my mother had to be in the office very early. One Monday morning there was a big snowstorm and Cassandra couldn’t make it. I was about five years old and when I woke up I was surprised not to see Cassandra. My mother was in the kitchen that morning and asked us what we wanted for breakfast. I said I want my “krispie milk.’ This was the way I described the sweet crunchy cereal Cassandra prepared for me every morning in my favorite bowl. My mother was clueless as to what I wanted. She was never there for breakfast and had no idea what cereal I ate or in which bowl I ate it. In desperation my mother began to empty the cupboards in search of ‘krispie milk’ and for the bowl which went with it. Suddenly the kitchen table was piled high with cereals and bowls.

“I’ll never forget the look of sadness on my mother’s face or the look of disappointment on the faces of my siblings as everyone realized that although my mother could find a property deed in a second she was clueless about her own daughter’s cereal bowl. Tears streamed from her eyes as she helplessly looked for the bowl.

“On that day 32 years ago I promised myself that whatever I did and whoever I married I would make sure I knew my children’s favorite cereal and bowl. And every morning when I take out those special bowls I think of my mother and her tears from that sad day 32 years ago.”

As I listened to her story I wondered what my own children ate for breakfast. Somehow at that moment nothing else in the world mattered.