And that “We told you so,” which they never got to say, turned into a great gift — their marriage, their home

Moriah’s laughing-face emoji, times three, jumped off the screen at Yaffa’le. “Omigosh, Dudi, you’ve got to see this!”

“Why so hysterical?” Dudi ambles in from the living room, hand in hand with Avital, who’s bundled up in a winter coat and hat.

“I’m not hysterical — but this is,” she says. “Take a look — this is what happens when a guy gets too obsessed with deleting things from ads. First it’s a drawing of cherries, then it’s a picture of a baby, and then it’s a bottle of laundry detergent… but this goes under his radar.”

Dudi looks at the screen and sucks in his breath. “Come on, this is fake,” he said.

“Nope. Do you think I’m that naïve? This is a screenshot straight out of Hamehadhed. From an opinion column in this morning’s paper.”

“Oy,” Dudi groans, trying frantically to remember which days of the week Gedalya worked. He and another man took alternate shifts on the paper’s vaadah ruchanit. “I hope it wasn’t Gedalya.”

“You’re worried about your brother,” Yaffa’le says with her usual arrow-straight perception. “About his job.”

Avital wedges between them, trying to get her little face close to the screen. “I can’t see anything,” she complained.

“How could such a thing happen?” Dudi mutters. With all his mixed feelings toward his brother, he can’t find it in his heart to gloat.

But Yaffa’le is still savoring the triumph. “I’ll tell you how it happened. They were quoting a columnist from another paper,” she says, “and they just copied and pasted a whole paragraph without editing it. And meanwhile, the reviewer in charge of the paper’s ‘spiritual purity’ is too busy arguing with innocent advertisers about every nuance of their ad copy and picking apart their graphics with a fine-tooth comb.”

“I just hope it wasn’t Gedalya.”

“Call him up and ask him.”

“I can’t,” Dudi groans. Gedalya would think he was calling to gloat… and it wouldn’t be true.