Tzvi pushes out his chair. “You’re going to win anyway, Mommy, why should I play?”

Everyone settles around as I plunk the wooden box on the table and pull out the game board. Clink. Clunk. The cream rectangles with numbers one to thirteen in red, yellow, blue,  and black spill out like white chocolate squares. It’s the game where you pick 14 pieces, then take turns setting them on the table in color and sequence.

Rummikub. My late grandmother’s set.

Tzvi pushes out his chair. “You’re going to win anyway, Mommy, why should I play?”

“You never know until you put your full power into it,” I answer.

And the dining room fades. I’m in Bubby’s small room, the lace curtain billowing in the breeze. I’m nine, and Bubby sets up her board. I fumble with my pieces, ogling hers sliding onto the cocoa-brown end table with such ease. I can’t play. It’s always Gitty, my younger sister, who wins in Othello and Uno and Sorry.

Bubby’s chin rides up in that way that says, “You’re playing,” so I drop my blue five on the first available spot.

“Yo,” Bubby says in her Hungarian lilt, as if my move is worth a small prize. “Put down more.”