I

wasn’t disappointed. Shua never complained about his homework, aced his tests, and looked forward to school.

Rabbi Ginsberg ran a tight ship. His classes started and ended on time. His worksheets were clear and organized. He had a prize system that kept Shua engaged in his learning. I felt like I could exhale. In the past, Shua would start school with a positive attitude. He’d have his papers neatly filled out and in the correct folders. But about two weeks after Succos, all that enthusiasm would fade, his papers crumpled and creased with doodles and sketches in the margins. Sometimes the sheets would be partially filled out, and sometimes not at all.

But this year, Shua’s enthusiasm didn’t flag. A month after Succos, his papers were still neat, and he didn’t lose interest in school. One day, he casually mentioned that Rebbi had kept him in the classroom during lunch to review the gemara with him.

“One on one?” I asked Shua. “That’s really nice of him.”

“He saw that I didn’t understand when he was teaching it,” Shua said. “Now I get it.”

Not only did he spend the extra time with Shua, he also made sure that Shua got to eat his lunch, even though the kitchen had finished serving lunch to the sixth graders. And it wasn’t the only time Rabbi Ginsberg made sure Shua kept up with the class. When he saw Shua glazing over, he’d catch him after class to help him grasp whatever point he’d missed during the lesson. Finally, something clicked for Shua and he began to love school.

All of this was thanks to Rabbi Ginsberg, and I knew what people meant when they called him a superstar rebbi.

But little things cropped up.

There was the time my sister Sarah’s family was over for Shabbos a few weeks after Succos. Sarah and I are the closest of our siblings. Our husbands both work in the real estate world. Mine is a mortgage broker, and her husband is a lawyer. Our kids are close in age and love spending time together.

On Shabbos day, we had finished eating, and the adults were relaxing around the table, schmoozing over nuts and chocolate.  The kids congregated around the couch, playing board games and looking at books.

But then I heard a commotion at the couch.

“What’s going on?” I turned around.

Mendy, Sarah’s son, was sitting on the couch near a pile of comic books, holding one in his hand and looking red and indignant.

“Shua just called me stupid,” he said.

I looked over at Shua. “Rabbi Ginsberg says it’s stupid to read comic books,” said Shua. “He said it messes up your head and then you can’t think anymore.”

This gave me pause. Shua loved comic books. He was always clamoring for us to buy the latest ones, and we often did. But now that I thought of it, he hadn’t read any of them in a while. They weren’t piled on my kitchen table anymore or on the floor near his bed. I thought he’d outgrown them. This was the first I’d heard of them being on Shua’s Bad List.

But I’d deal with that later. Right now, it was more important to soothe Heshy’s hurt feelings.

“You can’t say that,” I told Shua.

He mumbled a quick sorry, and things went back to normal between the kids. But after that, I noticed how Shua would make an offhand remark if he saw Yossi reading a comic book. “You want to read that?”

When I thought about it, I couldn’t really put my finger on what bothered me, because lots of rebbeim talk about the kinds of books they don’t like. And at the same time, as kids grow up, many of them are looking to grow spiritually. Maybe denying himself the books he used to adore was part of Shua’s path of spiritual growth. I was reluctant to say anything to him.

Chapter 2

H

ad this been the only issue, I’d have written it off, but then there were other things, and together, they added up to a situation that worried me.

They were subtle things. Take the time Shua came home and told me about the fight he’d had with a friend. He said Sholom was upset at him, and Shua wasn’t sure what he’d done to offend him. I suggested he talk to Sholom during recess.

“Why don’t you say, ‘I see you’re upset, but I’m not sure what happened. Can you tell me how I could fix it?’ ” I suggested.

“That’s not a good idea,” he said.

I decided to leave it alone and let him find his way through independently. But the next day, Shua came home from school and said Rabbi Ginsberg had helped him patch things up with Sholom.

“What did he tell you to do?” I was curious to see how his advice differed from mine.

“He told me to have a quiet conversation with him during recess,” Shua told me. “He said I should tell him, ‘I see you’re upset, and I’m not sure why. But I want you to know that I’m sorry if I did anything to upset you.’”

“But that’s exactly what I told you to say.”

“It isn’t at all the same,” Shua said.

But it was the same. The only difference was where the advice came from, and that left me uneasy. Rabbi Ginsberg seemed to have Shua under a sort of spell. I could tell him something, or give him an idea, and his response would be, “You don’t get it.” Then his teacher would say the same thing, and he would accept it.

According to Shua, Rabbi Ginsberg was an “expert.” He told us, “Rabbi Ginsberg has tons of experience with this type of thing,” and “Rabbi Ginsberg really gets guys my age.”

That wasn’t all.

There was the day when Shua came home and told me he’d had a hard day at school. I was busy preparing supper, but I asked him what had happened.

“Nothing much,” he said, “but my rebbi saw how upset I was in school, and he calmed me down.”

“That was kind of him,” I said, but inside, I was thinking about Rabbi Ginsberg and his magical way of saying just the right thing to Shua.

“He’s so nice,” Shua answered. “He also told me I could call him on the phone any time I’m upset. He said he doesn’t care what time it is. It could even be in the middle of the night.”

This felt different. The other things — they niggled and annoyed me, but those things fell into the realm of differing opinions.

This felt wrong.

“Shua,” I said firmly. “At home, you have parents. If you need someone to talk to, we’re here for you. Your rebbi can help you in school, but not when we’re home. You can’t call him. He’s not your father.”

T

hen there was the contest.

One of Rabbi Ginsberg’s main goals for the year was to keep the kids engaged — which he did phenomenally. He had fabulous worksheets, his prize system was a huge incentive, and there would be grand siyumim when the boys finished a perek in Gemara. And one day, Shua came home all fired up, talking about the Challenge Question Contest that Rabbi Ginsberg had given them that day.

There were no easy answers, he had told the boys, and it would need extensive research. “Ask everyone you know to help you find the answer,” he told the boys.

Shua was determined to win, and immediately set to work, trying to find an answer that would satisfy his rebbi. He called my father-in-law, who is a talmid chacham, and spent hours on the phone with him over several days. My father-in-law helped Shua put together a really nice answer that seemed to reconcile all the contradictory points the question had posed. I typed it up for him so it would be legible, and he brought it back to school.

Three boys won the contest, and Shua was one of them. He came home and told me the prize was a $100 gift card to Eichler’s.

I was a bit taken aback, and once again, thought of the beautiful Mishnah Berurah Rabbi Ginsberg had gotten for Yossi. Maybe it wasn’t my business, but I couldn’t help wondering how Rabbi Ginsberg — on a rebbi’s salary — had the means to sponsor such generous prizes. A $100 gift card is a significant prize for a sixth grader, and that there were three boys in the class who were getting this prize made me wonder.

The next day, Shua called me from school. Rabbi Ginsberg had asked him if he could take care of the prizes. Rabbi Ginsberg wanted to give Shua his credit card, and then Shua would go to Eichler’s after school, ask for the three gift cards, and pay for it with the rebbi’s card.

He was calling to ask me if I was okay with him going.

I was not.

“I’m not comfortable with you handling someone else’s credit card,” I told him.

Rabbi Ginsberg must have found another way to take care of the prizes, because by the time the week was over, Shua had the gift card.

B

ack in June, I had mentioned Yossi’s chart to my husband, Chesky.

“It’s definitely unusual,” Chesky said. “But odd? I’m not so sure. Yeshivos can be like this. It’s possible that during recess or lunch, another rebbi could schmooze with a kid and form a bond with him. Maybe that’s what happened here.”

Chesky had also wondered if Rabbi Ginsberg was the new assistant principal. Recently, the principal had left the school, and the sgan menahel became the principal. So Rabbi Ginsberg could have been the new or temporary assistant principal. It made sense because he had that charismatic personality, and it would also explain why he’d intervened with Yossi. It might also explain the generous gift. Maybe he had access to a fund we didn’t know about.

We probably should have called to find out, but it was such a hectic time, and the end of the school year, so we let it go.

Had one of us called, we would have learned that in fact, Rabbi Ginsberg was not the new sgan menahel. This I found out in September when he became Shua’s rebbi, and at that point, bringing up the chart and the expensive prize seemed irrelevant. Why would a parent complain about a random kindness?

But now, when Shua came home with a $100 gift card, I felt uncomfortable enough to bring it up with Chesky.

“It’s not just the gift card,” I told Chesky. “You know Shua won’t read comic books anymore, either. And while I know that rebbeim have their things they like and don’t like, I don’t like this in the context of everything else. He takes everything Rabbi Ginsberg says very seriously.”

Chesky knew about all of it — Yossi’s chart, how Shua had discounted my advice and had taken the same advice from Rabbi Ginsberg, and Rabbi Ginsberg’s offer that Shua could call him any time, day or night. But he had also found Rabbi Ginsberg to be level-headed at PTA. “He was really impressive,” he had told me. “He’s really on the ball and gets the sixth-grade kids.”

It was hard to reconcile the opinion he had of Rabbi Ginsberg with this other aspect of him that we were seeing through Shua’s experiences.

“I think I’m going to have a conversation with the menahel,” Chesky said. “But I want to talk to Shua first.”

After supper one night, Chesky casually asked Shua, “Are you comfortable around Rabbi Ginsberg?” Shua gave a firm yes. He seemed believable, and Chesky and I didn’t want to plant any ideas in his head, so we let it go.

But Chesky also thought the gift card was excessive and had a conversation with the menahel, anyway.

“Are you aware of these expensive prizes?” he asked Rabbi Bergstein.

Rabbi Bergstein was surprised and agreed it was not the norm.

“I’m going to follow up,” he told us. “Let’s be in touch.”

But nothing came of that conversation. Rabbi Bergstein is a very nice man, and well-intentioned, but he wasn’t cut out for the job of menahel. He’d been a last-minute replacement for the previous menahel, and while he’d been an excellent assistant principal, he wasn’t decisive and strong-willed enough to lead a school. A story like ours probably struck him as small and minor, and he never did get back to us.

Without a definitive answer, Chesky and I were left to speculate on our own.

“All the parents like him,” I told Chesky. I had put out feelers at the last PTA event, and it was just like the chat. No one had anything bad to say about Rabbi Ginsberg. In fact, it was the opposite. Parents loved him and said their boys were thriving.

“Maybe he feels so responsible because of the family he comes from,” Chesky said. “I mean, they’re askanim and involved in all the community matters. Maybe Rabbi Ginsberg sees the yeshivah as his own small community, and he thinks that if some kids need extra help, he can intercede.”

“He mentioned that he had a difficult childhood,” I told Chesky.

“Right,” he said. “And he may be trying to fix that for the kids he sees are having a hard time, too.”

“But even if all this is true,” I said, “it still doesn’t address the expensive gifts.”

And it didn’t address the fact that Rabbi Ginsberg had told Shua he could call him any time he wanted.

Chapter 3

WE

were in a kind of limbo without any definitive answers from the yeshivah. It almost gave us no choice but to let things go. Shua was still doing well, and there’s always that temptation to leave things as they are when they seem quiet.

One night, Rabbi Ginsberg called.

“This is just a nachas call,” he told me when I picked up the phone. “I wanted to tell you how well Shua is doing this year. He’s come such a long way since the beginning of the year.”

I felt my heart swell. Listening to Rabbi Ginsberg talk, I could understand why Shua liked him so much, why he was a successful rebbi, and so well-liked by parents. There was warmth coming through his words.

He told me he kept a kind of diary where he wrote notes on each boy.

“Every day after yeshivah, I sit down and write a few lines about each boy,” he said. “If a boy did something good, I write that down. If a boy understood the gemara extra well, I write that down too. And if it’s farkert, I write that information down, too. This way, I can really track their progress. Shua has made remarkable progress this year. He’s really shining in all areas.”

“Thank you, Rebbi,” I told him. “He really enjoys being your talmid.”

“I think Shua is the type of boy who does well with a little extra,” Rabbi Ginsberg continued. “This is why I learn a little more with him sometimes. I’m sure he’s told you.”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you so much for that.”

“And it was so good that he won the Challenge Question,” said Rabbi Ginsberg. “Of course, he deserved it. But it was so great that it worked out for him to win.”

“He was thrilled.”

“Baruch Hashem,” said Rabbi Ginsberg. “B’ezras hashem, he’ll do well. He needs some extra time. Extra attention. Maybe even a little extra responsibility. But he’s a good kid, your Shua.”

“Thank you, Rabbi Ginsberg,” I told him. “And thank you for this nachas call.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “Continued nachas.”

After he hung up, I thought about what he said. Shua really was doing so well this year, and Rabbi Ginsberg had a lot to do with that.

That was what I needed to focus on.

T

hings stayed great for another month, until the day Shua came home from school all wound up, and on the verge of tears. It had been so long since the last time I had seen him like that, and I felt a twinge of concern. I sat him next to me on the living room couch, and I asked him to tell me what was bothering him.

“Ma, I did something awful today,” he told me. “I told Rebbi a terrible secret.”

He started crying great heaving sobs. It took some time, but I was able to drag the story out of him.

Shua told his rebbi that he’d been having a hard time sleeping. His rebbi wanted to get to the root of what was getting in the way of Shua’s sleep, and asked him a bunch of questions. First, he wanted to know if Shua watches scary movies at night.

Shua told him that our family doesn’t watch movies.  School policy forbids them, and it’s grounds for expulsion. I began to feel uneasy.

Then Rabbi Ginsberg asked, “Do either of your parents do anything that embarrasses you? Does your mother ever embarrass you?”

Shua told him no.

“Does your father ever embarrass you?” Rabbi Ginsburg asked.

Shua had said, “Yes.”

And at that point, Shua started crying again, and I started to wonder what he could have possibly told Rabbi Ginsberg. “I told him what Tatty does,” Shua continued.

I still didn’t know what Shua meant. “What does Tatty do?”

Shua gulped. “I told him that Tatty is diabetic, and sometimes during davening on Shabbos his insulin pump beeps, and it’s really embarrassing for me.”

That Chesky is diabetic isn’t a big deal for us. He has it under control, and it’s just another detail in our lives. When Shua said he shared a family secret, Chesky’s diabetes wasn’t even on my radar.

Then Shua started sobbing again.

“Listen, Shua.” I put my arm around him. I could see that Shua was nervous that Chesky would be upset that he shared this information with his rebbi. “There’s a difference between private and a secret. It’s not a secret that Tatty has diabetes. It’s just private, which means that if someone needs to know about it, it’s okay. Tatty is not upset at you if you tell your rebbi that he has an insulin pump. It’s not a secret. It’s just that we only tell people who need to know, but lots of people know. Lots of our friends know. You don’t have to be worried.”

What I really wanted to know was how Shua felt about this conversation with his rebbi after the fact. Shua was distraught. He felt awful that he had shared what he had thought was a secret with his rebbi. I wanted to understand what made him feel compelled to divulge it. I wanted to understand the hold his rebbi seemed to have over him. I was furious at the way he had used his influence over Shua’s life to the point where Rabbi Ginsberg made him do something he hadn’t wanted to do.

“What did you feel like when your rebbi asked you if there’s anything about your parents that embarrassed you?”

Shua held my glance for a second before he continued. “I really didn’t want to tell him, but he kept asking. When he asked if Tatty does anything embarrassing, I only said yes because I felt like I had to answer. But after I said yes, I wish I hadn’t said anything. I kept telling him that it doesn’t matter what he does. It really doesn’t matter. I just wanted him to leave me alone.”

Shua stopped talking and looked down. His eyes filled with tears, and I thought he was going to start sobbing again.

“He kept trying to schlep it out of me, and finally, I told him about Tatty’s insulin pump.”

“Did it make you feel good to tell rebbi about Tatty’s diabetes?” I asked.

Shua started crying again. “No. It didn’t make me feel good at all.”

I held Shua while he cried. I was shaken. Parents and teachers are a team — we’re supposed to work together. But I didn’t feel that with Rabbi Ginsberg.  I felt like I had a force working against me, causing damage.  The worst kind of harm comes from people who think they’re helping. Rabbi Ginsberg thought he was helping, but I was outraged at how he’d overstepped and assumed a role that wasn’t his to take. Shua has loving, caring parents. How dare he assume we weren’t up to task?

Each thing that had happened seemed like a little nothing, but taken all together, it was like that butterfly that flaps its wings and causes a tsunami. Who’d think the tiniest breeze caused by the butterfly’s wings would be capable of building into a forceful wind that could cause tremendous damage? All I had to do was look at all the little things that had happened up until this point. Together, they were building into a gale-force wind. There was no tsunami on the horizon yet, but it wasn’t concern I was feeling anymore. I was getting scared.

B

eing a mother means that you’re always scared for your children. Many mothers see danger everywhere, and I am self-aware enough to know that. Of course, I wondered if it was possible I was seeing problems where there were none.

It was time to ask an outsider for an opinion. There were two people in my life that I could consult. One of them was Lisa.

Lisa is the psychologist who sees Yossi once a week. She’s helped him so much over the years, and through her work with him, she’s become acquainted with the rest of our family. She knows Shua quite well.

After Yossi’s next session with her, I told her what had happened.

“If an adult pressures a child to do something out of his comfort zone, it’s not okay,” Lisa said. “And knowing Shua, I’d say this is a red flag.”

Her response both reassured me and worried me. On one hand, I had worried that I was overreacting or imagining things, and she made me realize I wasn’t. On the other hand, her agreement heightened my concern. If she was right, and there were red flags in Rabbi Ginsberg’s behavior, that meant that I’d need to take action.

But before that, I called my cousin, Machla. Machla lives a short drive away from us. While she sends her kids to a different school and we have different friends, our backgrounds are much more similar than mine and Lisa’s.

She had a different take than Lisa. “The rebbi’s behavior is definitely inappropriate, offering his phone number to a kid and handing him his credit card,” she said. “And that conversation he had with Shua is really out of line.”

But she thought Rabbi Ginsberg had a Superman complex.

“Look, he’s a Ginsberg, right?” she said. “Look at his father and his brothers. They’re all high rollers and involved in all kinds of community projects. And he’s a rebbi. So this is just his way of making his mark — of being an askan.”

Machla’s view made this situation feel less dire. But it still underscored the bottom line: We needed the school to pay attention and take action.

Chapter 4

O

ne night, Chesky and I found Shua on the phone, in bed, crying. It was late — well after 10 p.m.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “It’s hours after your bedtime.”

Shua covered the lower half of the phone with his hand and said, “Can you please wait? I’m on the phone with my rebbi.”

I said, “I’m really sorry. You can’t be talking to rebbi on the phone in your room after your bedtime. That’s just not appropriate.”

Shua passed the phone to us. Chesky took the phone and said, “Look, we really appreciate everything you do, but we’re the parents. This is too much, and he can speak to you in school. There has to be some sort of boundary here.”

Shua was still crying, but I only heard it as background noise. My attention was on Chesky. He moved the phone from his ear so I’d be able to hear Rabbi Ginsberg’s response.

“Maybe you can just let us finish the conversation,” Rabbi Ginsberg replied. “I’m really making progress with him, and it’s chaval for you to interrupt now.”

I wanted to take the phone from Chesky and end the call, but Chesky continued talking.

“I appreciate it, but I feel very uncomfortable with you being on the phone with him right now,” he said. “I think we’re going to have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Okay, I hear what you’re saying,” I heard Rabbi Ginsberg through the phone. “You’re the parent, at the end of the day. I just think it’s really a shame, because we’re making so much headway.”

Chesky looked at me with a question in his eyes. He was softening, and I knew he was going to agree to let Rabbi Ginsberg have five more minutes with Shua.

I couldn’t let that happen. I wasn’t the one on the phone with Rabbi Ginsberg, and it was much easier for me to put my foot down. I signaled furiously to Chesky, saying with my head and hands that no, this phone call would not continue.

Chesky got the message. He said, “Let’s save this for the morning. You’ll talk to him tomorrow in school.”

Meanwhile, Shua was crying in his bed. Chesky went to talk to him.

“Would you like to see a therapist?” he asked Shua. “You have to remember your rebbi is not a therapist. When the lines get blurry, there could be a lot of confusion.”

I pulled up a chair, and sat down near Shua’s bed. “It’s important to have a safe space to talk to someone. We can find a therapist for you, if you’d like.”

“People will say I’m crazy if I see a therapist,” Shua said.

“Exactly the opposite,” I told him. “So many people see therapists today. Smart, strong people see therapists, and they only get stronger. Nowadays, the people who don’t get therapy are the weird ones.”

Shua took a deep breath and said, “Okay. I want you to find me a therapist.”

F

inding Shua a therapist was harder than we anticipated. Lisa suggested a full neuropsych evaluation. But that would have cost about $7,000 — an amount far above what we were prepared to pay. We began researching other options.

First, we called the school, and asked if they would be able to recommend someone who’d be able to do the same evaluation for less, but they didn’t know of anyone. Instead, they were able to secure a slot for Shua with the school psychologist, Rabbi Fried.

The therapist knows the staff in the school, and after we had our intake, I told him that in addition to Shua’s social issues and some issues with Yossi, there was an odd dynamic with Shua’s rebbi.

“We really need you to keep an eye on him to help us figure it out,” I said.

He was very surprised. “Oh, Rabbi Ginsberg? He’s a little quirky, but he seems fine to me.”

“We don’t feel so comfortable with what’s going on,” I answered.

WE

were called down to the yeshivah the next day for a meeting with Rabbi Fried and the menahel, Rabbi Bergstein.

After we sat, Rabbi Fried cleared his throat. “I had a meeting with Rabbi Ginsberg and Rabbi Bergstein to discuss the concerns regarding Rabbi Ginsberg. And Rabbi Bergstein mentioned you felt uncomfortable with the contest prize. And you had told us about that late night call between Rabbi Ginsberg and Shua, which we mentioned as well.”

We nodded our agreement.

“Well, right off the bat, I want to say that Rabbi Ginsberg is one of our best rebbeim,” said Rabbi Bergstein. “I don’t need to tell you he has had tremendous success with numerous talmidim, including your own son, Shua. At the same time, I can understand your concerns. So we had a conversation with Rabbi Ginsberg.”

“How did that go?” Chesky asked.

“Not so well, I’m afraid,” said Rabbi Fried. “He had a hard time understanding why you were so upset, especially because of how far Shua has come this year.”

“What exactly did you tell him?” I asked.

“We talked about the partnership between parents and the rebbi,” said Rabbi Bergstein. “We emphasized the partnership piece, and said it was very important for each partner to fill their role in the proper place. What we were trying to say was that it’s important for everyone to stay in their own lane. In yeshivah, the rebbi is in charge, and at home, the parents are the ones the child should turn to.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” Chesky said.

“It does,” said Rabbi Fried. “But Rabbi Ginsberg felt he was doing a good thing for Shua. He feels he had the best of intentions, and that you misunderstood him.”

I started to protest, but Rabbi Bergstein cut me off.

“Look,” he said, “it’s a parent’s job to look out for their child. So if a parent has a concern, it’s important that we listen. We feel your concerns were legitimate, and that’s why we spoke to Rabbi Ginsberg. He really is regretful that he caused you aggravation.”

There was a knock at the door.

“That will be Rabbi Ginsberg,” said Rabbi Bergstein. “I think it’s important that we clear the air once and for all.”

Rabbi Ginsberg stepped into the room and took a seat near Rabbi Fried.

“First off,” he said, “I want to apologize for making you feel uncomfortable. I only wanted what was best for Shua.” He sat tall in his chair, his hands resting comfortably at his sides. He exuded warmth and sympathy, and I remembered the nachas call from earlier in the year. He seemed genuine.

“It is important to both of us that your connection with Shua should remain in school,” said Chesky.

“And I want us all to be on the same page,” I added.

Rabbi Ginsberg glanced at Rabbi Fried. “I understand,” he said. “I only intervened because I thought I could be helpful. I’m sorry you feel I overstepped. I will not do that again. I only want to regain your confidence, because I feel that as his rebbi, I can still help Shua reach his potential.”

“You’ve been enormously helpful to Shua this year,” said Chesky.

Rabbi Bergstein stood up. “I think we’ve accomplished what we set out to do here,” he said. “I think we all have an understanding.”

Chesky and I stood up. The men shook hands all around, and the meeting was over.

Chapter 5

A

fter the meeting, I thought we had come to an understanding. But then something happened that upset me all over again.

I got a call from Rabbi Fried a couple of weeks later.

“Shua is embarrassed your husband wore a tie with cartoon characters on it to the Avos U’Banim grand finale instead of his regular tie,” he said.

But Chesky hadn’t worn that tie. He wore it at home as they were getting ready to leave that Motzaei Shabbos.

It seemed like Shua was still hanging on to that idea that he was embarrassed of Chesky, planted months ago by Rabbi Ginsberg.

I told Rabbi Fried, but he didn’t believe me. “If you weren’t there, how do you know?” he asked.

Resentment built inside me.

“It’s a very uncomfortable thing for me to tell you not to believe my son,” I said, “but I know that my husband did not wear a cartoon tie to Avos U’Banim.”

I don’t know why Rabbi Fried preferred to believe that Shua feels uncomfortable around his father. I can’t believe that this crazy idea, a complete lie, has gained traction, and I blame Rabbi Ginsberg for planting this idea in Shua’s head. This feeling of embarrassment has taken root and created a strange wedge between Shua and Chesky. And now, in this latest iteration, it’s because of something that never actually happened.

But Rabbi Fried didn’t budge. “Rabbi Ginsberg is one of the best rebbeim I have ever seen,” he said. “He’s the perfect kind of rebbi for a boy like Shua. We need to use every minute of this year to Shua’s best advantage. I don’t know if you’ll get this lucky again next year or the year after.”

We’ve been told this time and again about Rabbi Ginsberg. He’s a great rebbi, and great for Shua. Yet there’s this feeling of discomfort in the pit of my stomach, and my instincts are on high alert. But people around me have made me doubt my reactions. I’ve been second guessing, especially the wisdom of having that meeting with the menahel and Rabbi Fried.

Right after midwinter vacation, each sixth-grade class organizes a skit for the Annual Gemara Bowl, which is a buzzer-based competition between the boys. Two boys from each class are chosen to organize the entire project, from writing the script to assigning parts to directing practices. Shua was the perfect candidate for the task, and based on the way Rabbi Ginsberg had given him tiny boosts throughout the year, I thought Shua would be chosen as head of the skit.

But he wasn’t. And he was disappointed.

Now Shua is losing out, and maybe I’m the reason. Maybe I’ve ruined Shua’s opportunity to benefit tremendously from a fabulous rebbi. Maybe not getting chosen to lead the Purim skit is only the first way things will play out negatively for Shua. Maybe I’ve sacrificed the rest of Shua’s school year in order to draw that line in the sand.

But then I remember the other things — Yossi’s chart, the generous gifts, the late-night phone call, the gap that Rabbi Ginsberg manufactured between Shua and Chesky.

I just don’t know.

I worry about Shua.

And I wonder about Rabbi Ginsberg. Ff

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 939)