“My stomach. It’s really bothering me.” It was really bothering me. The pain was getting worse

It was an hour before Shabbos. The house was calm and quiet, the Erev Shabbos hustle basically over (that’s what happens when your mother is really organized. Trust me, I know it’s not like that in every home). The younger kids were bathed and dressed and were playing with Kapla in the playroom. My mother was getting ready upstairs, the chicken soup was bubbling quietly on the blech, the floors were clean, and I was all ready for Shabbos, reading a book on the couch. That’s when the pain started.

It was just a stomachache. I was an 11-year-old boy, much too old and mature to complain about a “sore tummy.” Instead, I took a drink of water and tried to find a comfortable position. The pain wasn’t terrible, and I continued reading. Eventually my mother came downstairs, gave everyone their Erev Shabbos treat, and, as the sun moved lower in the sky, lit the Shabbos candles.

By the time she finished lighting and turned around to wish us good Shabbos, my stomach was really hurting. I guess Ima noticed, because she said, “Noach, what’s wrong?”

I winced and gingerly touched my stomach. “My stomach. It’s really bothering me.” It was really bothering me. The pain was getting worse.