How could we tell Savta that her beloved budgie had gone missing?

It’s Motzaei Shabbos, four days before Succos, 3 a.m. One daughter is patchkeh’ing with royal icing cookies and needs another color to be mixed. Another daughter is taking challah after challah out of my tired oven, but there’s no empty counter space, so I’m running like a headless chicken between the upstairs and downstairs freezers trying to take stock of what we have and what we still need.

I go through my mental checklist. Cooking? Yup, I’ve been freezing soups, kugels, and desserts for weeks already. The meat order is being picked up tomorrow by one of the teenagers. Clothing and shoes for the kids? Check. My clothing? Not a priority, maybe right before Yom Tov, or maybe not — like last year. The succah? That’s up to my husband and sons. I take a quick peek out the window and all I see is the frame. Breathe in, breathe out. “Remember,” I tell myself, “They always pull through.”

Amid the chaos, I hear my mother’s sweet voice calling from upstairs. “Sari, dear? My home phone isn’t working again and the family is trying to reach me. I’ve been on the phone with customer service for an hour already. Can you help?”

My mother is her nineties, she should live to 120 im yirtzeh Hashem, and has been a part of our household for nine years. I know my mother: She won’t go to sleep until the problem is solved. And if the phone doesn’t get fixed, there’ll be a flood of calls tomorrow morning from worried children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, all wondering why they can’t reach their beloved Savta.

“Sure, Ma,” I say as I climb the stairs. They talk about the sandwich generation, but I think I’m part of a double-decker sandwich.

Let me be clear: It’s a brachah to have a grandparent living with us. My mother dotes on my children and spoils them. They love going up to my mother’s attached apartment to chat, play a game, and of course, to escape when asked to do their homework. And it’s not only the kids — I feel very lucky, too. But sometimes it’s hard. Like on Erev Yom Tov, when I’m being pulled in a million directions by family members of all ages.