As told to Rochel Samet

I

wake up to noise.

Downstairs: peal of the doorbell, chatter of voices, excited exclamations.

Upstairs: shrieks of laughter, whirr of blow-dryer, zippers and snaps and rustling as Henny does her hair and helps Sara with her Queen Esther extravaganza.

Outside: booming music, wobbly voices singing off-key, drumbeats and groggers and rhythmic pounding under my skull.

It’s Purim.

I try to sit, flop back down.

Maybe I’ll feel better soon.

Yeah, and maybe Queen Esther will appear to point a golden scepter and magically cure everything.

By the time I get to the living room, I’m wiped.

“Libby, can you go deliver…” My mother’s words are lost in a blare of music from outside.

She appears in the doorway. “Libby?”

“Hi, Ma. Sorry. I can’t go anywhere. I don’t feel good.”

“Oh,” she says, disappointed. “I really need the help.”

“I wish I could,” I say lamely. She’s already calling Sara. A moment later Henny waltzes in, colored glitter streaked across her face. She ignores me completely.

Mid-morning, a chocolate arrangement arrives, the size of a small car. Sara and Tzvi shriek so loudly that I drag myself off the couch. Oh, right, from Zeesy.

“How adorable!” Ma gushes.

“Can I eat one, please, please?” Ari jumps up and down.

“No, we need to show Chaim,” Ma says. Ari pouts. “But after that, we’ll all have something yummy!”

Something yummy — and dairy, and sugary.

We’re not all going to try Zeesy’s adorable chocolates.