The flashbacks are constant. The one I’m reliving now is my husband coming home from shul Friday night, finding me in tears as I read. “Suri, put that magazine away. Why do they have so many sad articles? They should call it Meis-pacha,” he would joke. It’s hard to believe it’s been two years.
My mazel, however, has never yet helped me fill my bank account, my sheitel boxes, or my jewelry rolls
My heart sinks as I see the dates of our vacation and the performance coincide
She glances down at them and knows she can’t use them for the yearbook. They’re horrible, hideous even. How can she possibly be so ugly?
Bench or seven flights of stairs? I could wait for another bus. Or I could start walking home. Or… I could just sit here?
It’s important for her chinuch, I told myself, and I believed it. I still do
