Simchi shrugs, eyes Yitzchok to gauge his reaction. “But Ma… we’ll be careful.”

“That’s great.” I busy clearing plates as the two finish eating. “So what are you doing about the helmet?” I ask.

The boys exchange glances and Simchi winks at his friend, tells me he’ll borrow one from Tzvi, my nephew who lives up the block. I wave them goodbye. Simchi will be home before Maariv in three hours.

The next shift arrives, and I do the supper-serve-schmooze thing until they run off to Minchah and night seder. My husband lingers a moment. “What’s your plan?”

“I wanted to finish the cupcakes, but I don’t have enough sprinkles, so I guess I’ll just wash up, then read.”

“Nice weather out. Take a walk.”

I mumble something about being tired. He eyes me, and I laugh. “Okay, okay. It’s Simchi. I need to be home for him.”

“You know, he’s almost bar mitzvah.” My husband starts down the stairs. “Anyway, you’ll be home before he’s back if you run out for the sprinkles.”

Yes, but what if? I pull on my apron, tie the strings, swish and wash and rinse. The phone rings. It’s my much older sister-in-law, and we talk about this and that until I mention the sprinkles and Simchi. She’s quiet a moment. “That’s how it is with the baby. I was the same.”

I laugh because I remember those days. At ten years old, Sori, my oldest, was handling the cookies in the oven as my sister-in-law took care of it for her 11-year-old baby.  Back then, I knew I’d never be like that. It feels like I’m disowning my own beliefs.

I take off my apron, look around at chairs empty of people, clock ticking round and round in the silence. My cell phone battery is low so I leave it charging on the counter and rush out. I’ll be back in 20. It’s another hour to Maariv at least.

The grocery is full of sound and movement. I get the sprinkles and saunter to the cash register, when Benny’s Tiger Sushi catches my eyes. Sori’s favorite. And her baby kept her up all night; I heard the tiredness in her voice when I spoke to her at lunchtime. I glance at my watch. If I walk briskly, I can make it there and back with enough time to be home for Simchi.

“Ma!” Sori exclaims when she sees me at the door. “You came to eat sushi with me?”

I hand her the bag, tell her about Simchi.

“But I just got my photos framed. Your grandkids. You must see.”

I rush inside, take in the scent of baked goods, eye the chocolate oozing from the edges of her babka. I ooh and aah over the pink-lined chariot in her photo shoots, her baby’s dimples, her son’s mischievous face. Sori cuts slabs of babka, hands me a plate, and I sit down for just two minutes, schmooze about things that make time slow.

The phone sings a clappy tune. ‘Call from Zeidy and Bubby.’

Simchi! I jump up, lunge for the phone. “Hello?”

“Mommy? I’m fine. I’m fine.” Simchi’s giggle is hollow. “I’m fine.” Shrill, super chirpy tone.

I clutch this piece of plastic tighter, move into Sori’s playroom. “What happened?”

Simchi chortles. “Nothing. I’m telling you. I’m fine.”

I plop down on the couch. There’s no way he’s going to tell me what’s wrong if he feels he needs to protect me. “Simchi.” I will my voice to soften and steady. “Something happened that’s making you nervous. Tell me.” I listen to the heavy breathing in my ears. Finally, he starts jabbering on high pitch. They were riding to mishmar, stopped and looked twice before crossing the street, but that red car was zooming on the turn and couldn’t swerve fast enough. Yitzchok was slightly ahead, so….

I take a deep breath. “How… is he?”

“I don’t know.” Simchi’s voice is sober. “But he spoke to Hatzalah, so it can’t be that bad.” There’s a slight pause. “His helmet split.”

I do the soothing mommy thing and Simchi calms a bit, but his tone is still scraggly.

The one time I dare leave, and I miss the moment my baby needs me most. “I’m coming home now,” I say, getting up from the sunken couch.

“No, no. I’m going to Maariv.”

Oh. “Okay. I’ll be there when you’re home to give you a huge hug.”

Simchi giggles.

I slip out into the misty night air. Leaves wave as I walk home.

I missed the moment for my son. A car passes, white flashing as it turns the corner. How had the driver of that red car missed the boys? And Simchi had watched it happen. All that dread in his stomach, and he still continued on to mishmar after Hatzalah hurried his friend toward care. There’s a stiffness in my walk, tightness in my shoulders, and I breathe as I stroll until my insides soften. I pass the shul at my corner where Simchi went for Maariv, awe at his presence of mind replacing worry.

Home is exactly as I left it, except for the cordless on the floor by the door where Simchi must have dropped it on his way out. Did he try his luck to look for me at Sori’s? Or had he called Sori for comfort when I wasn’t where he needed me?

My baby whose cry for independence makes my heart beat wild knew just how to get what he needs when he needed it most. My baby has strength I didn’t know. My baby is growing up.

Maybe I didn’t miss this moment. Maybe… just by being away, requiring him to solve this…. Maybe—

I made this moment for my son.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 908)