If she was calling now, it would have to be about Dassi and Meira, who were safely ensconced in camp

I

wish I could say I sprang to my daughter’s defense and expressed outrage at the injustice. I wish I could say I spoke out in the moment — with astonishment in my voice and pain in my heart. But it’s been over a decade since that call, and I honestly can’t remember what I said.

What I can remember, when I go back in time, is the hurt and the painful feelings of betrayal at that time. What I can remember is how I felt the Mama Bear in me rise up, armed for battle.

It was about ten days into my daughter Dassi’s sleepaway camp session when I received that “punch-in-the-gut” phone call from Meira Taub’s mother.

The sunshine streamed through the kitchen windows, so at odds with the dark words about to travel down the phone line.

But at first I thought this would be just another call. Dassi and Meira were best friends, though I didn’t know Mrs. Taub well. The two of us were never really friends. We were neighborhood acquaintances who became friendly through our daughters.

We lived in the same part of town, davened in the same shul, and traveled the same weekly pit stops. We would frequently cross paths on the well-worn road of day-to-day living, so what started out as silent nods evolved into friendly hellos that eventually morphed into the inevitable chitchat that followed the “how-are-you”s.

But that was the extent of it. Lots of smiling. No depth. Mostly, we were two ships passing in the night, ferrying our respective daughters to each other’s houses and to their other scheduled ports of call: gymnastics class, ballet studio, pizza shop, bagel store, ice cream parlor.

Come to think of it, we were basically a parental rideshare app back in the days when apps were what you ordered before mains.

If she was calling now, it would have to be about Dassi and Meira, who were safely ensconced in camp. What was there to say?