Chaim picked up his laffa, then put it down. He seemed to be thinking. “I don’t remember ever making a conscious choice in my life”

The door slammed and it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out who it was. It was 9 p.m., all the kids were home save one, and Avrumi would never slam the door. Obvious deduction: Chaim. Next question: What’s he mad about? Yeshivah? His business? The fact that his two-week deadline was almost here?

I turned around and smiled to his scowl.

“Wanna talk?”

He glowered.

“Want Schwarma Schtick?”

A nod.

“Order a lot, we got a lot to talk about.”

That actually got me a half-smirk.

Thirty minutes later, we sat down for Chaim’s second supper. I picked at some spicy fries while he worked his way through half a laffa.

“Some guy took over my business, and he’s totally botching it,” he said when he came up for air. I gave him a look.

“Took over? I thought you were shutting it down.”

“I had to stop ’cuz either way my time was up, but guys still need stuff, so a different guy is doing it.”

“Does he want to be given an ultimatum too?”

Chaim shrugged and took a bite. “He has time before he’s found out. Also, Ma”—a laugh danced on his lips—“you kvetch that the yeshivah’s secular studies is terrible, but we definitely understand the basics of supply and demand economics.”

We both chuckled.

“So what’s eating at you — that this guy is doing a terrible job, that it’s your space, that you were pushed into a decision? Or that you don’t know what you want?” I stopped. I was talking too much.

Chaim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Don’t say anything, Chana.

“I have to make a decision and I don’t know what I want to do.”