My mother sniffed the air suspiciously when she came to say goodnight to us. “Boys,” she said, “there’s something rotting in this room"

Being the fifth kid in a big family has its benefits. For one, I got away with a lot because, well, people were just too busy to notice me. I also got help and company from my older siblings. And I was a big brother too. All in all, I liked my place in the family.

There was one thing, though, that bothered me about being #5. When you’re #5, you’re never going be to be #1. There was always someone bigger, stronger, or smarter than me around. That bothered me a little. Sometimes I felt kind of like a little appendix dangling at the end of a big digestive system: a little unnecessary, kind of left wondering if anyone really needs it.

One day when I was ten years old, I came home from school (as usual), had a snack (Mommy’s yeast cake leftover from Shabbos, yum!), and looked for something to do. I went into my room. Something smelled weird. Maybe I could pretend I was a K9 police dog and search out the strange smell — it was probably being caused by something I had left around, and better I find it than my mother. It reminded me of the time I left a hot dog under my pillow to eat later. Yeah, well, you can guess how that story ended.

I tried to clear some of the mess, but we were four brothers sharing a small room. I gave up pretty quickly. Walking around the room, I sniffed and sniffed and breathed in deeply. Yuck, it really smelled bad.

I picked up pillows and blankets. No hot dogs. I looked under mountains of dirty clothes and stuck my nose under the closet. Nothing. Oh well. I shrugged, bumped into a basketball, and went to find someone to play with.

That night the smell was stronger. My mother sniffed the air suspiciously when she came to say goodnight to us. “Boys,” she said, “there’s something rotting in this room. Tomorrow, when you come home from school, I’m asking you all to spend some time getting this place into shape.” She looked at each of us meaningfully. I squirmed. They were probably all remembering the hot dog.

“Chezky, you didn’t bring food in again, did you?” Efraim said. I tipped my chin up and didn’t answer. “Oh, come on, Chezky,” my brothers groaned. Mommy pursed her lips. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow,” she said firmly. “Good night, now.” She leaned down to give me a kiss and I moved away slightly. She patted my arm. “Don’t worry,” she whispered to me. “It’s a good opportunity to clean up, anyway.”

(Excerpted from Mishpacha Jr., Issue 783)