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It’s a simchah, it’s a baby, a son for him and Batya. So what if the word son rips his heart clean in two, so what if his insides wrench from the pain of it

This was an emergency. My mind raced. It could be nothing. It could be something. It could be congenital or genetic. Or then again, it could be nothing

So now I’m the poor friend receiving her tzedakah, when just a year ago I was the one helping her?

Miri answered as succinctly as possible. She was here to uncover a fraudster, not examine her innermost self

She couldn’t have imagined how successful her channel would become, and that frightened her more than she would admit

She crumpled the papers in her hand and tossed them in the air. “Self-care,” she declared