“Come, Yitzchak, Leah, Shani, look, there’s real coins to keep at the end,” he’s telling all the grandchildren in earshot.

“Oooh, dreidel, I’ll play,” Yaakov says good-naturedly. Okay, so my brother drives me crazy sometimes, but he’s nice like that. Then he spots me looking and waves me over. “And Ashira will play, too, right? We need a good game of dreidel or it’s not Chanukah, hey?”

The dreidel tournament back at home is serious. We clear the table, get the backpackers and guests and our regular visitors sitting around it. We play with fake coins, but at the end, Abba exchanges it for gelt. For many of our guests, it’s their first time playing dreidel. We’ve developed a whole system, explaining the rules, how it works.

Every time it’s Abba’s turn, he pauses the game to tell more of the Chanukah story. The guests are enthralled, but he knows his stuff; he’ll stop before they get bored, stop when they’re hanging off their seats wide-eyed at a cliffhanger moment.

“And then, the Chashmonaim — a tiny band of untrained scholars — were facing the huge, powerful, Greek army astride their elephants… ready to trample them to death.”

Then he’ll stop, spin the dreidel. “Aww, a nun. Your turn.”

And the next round, he’ll continue the story.

So the game, the party, and the Chanukah story all happen at once.

It’s probably my favorite night of the year.

And sorry, but Aunt Chana’s tablescapes and Zeidy’s dreidel game and even the milky delicacies can’t compete with the party my parents pull off — together with all of us — every Chanukah.

“Ashira, it’s your turn,” Zeidy says, and I force a smile and spin the dreidel. Heh. Yippee-dee-doo.

One of the younger kids is crying because she lost all her coins. I scoot my chair nearer to hers. “Here, Gitty, take my pile.”

She looks up in wonder. But I’m done here. The game’s going strong; it’s as good a time to slip out as any.

I glance around: kids shrieking, adults laughing, Raizy and Bella nowhere to be seen. Oh, wait, now I see them, they’re sitting in the corner on the floor, eating salad and giggling together.

Omigosh.

Raizy’s so normal on her own, but she has this thing where she needs a shadow everywhere she goes.

For some reason the sight of them giggling together is the last straw. I’ve had enough. Luckily, I have a built-in escape — ha! The perks of living at Bubby’s.

I make myself a plate — caramel doughnut, slice of cream cake, and some chocolate-cheese confection that Aunt Shevi brought. Let Raizy enjoy the salads. It’s Chanukah; I’m allowed to enjoy myself.

Then, when Bubby and Aunt Chana are looking in the other direction, I make my way casually out the room and up the stairs.

Made it!

The noise follows me up the stairs, voices and laughter and pounding little feet. Never mind, a few moments and I’ll be able to shut it all out.

I notice my bedroom door is open. And how strange, I always make sure to close it, but especially when the family comes over, I don’t need anyone peering inside to see how tidy it is or what I’ve got hanging on the walls.

But wait. The noise — squeals of laughter and thumps, little voices and little feet —

It’s coming from my room.

What on earth?!

I fling the door open to its widest extent. Dini and Tzivi and Shani stop short, mid-jump on my bed, and then fall in a heap on the blanket, laughing hysterically. It smells, very strongly, of my perfume.

“She came! She came!” Dini shrieks.

“Ashira, can we jump on your bed more? Please please please?” Shani begs, knocking one of my throw pillows to the floor as she scrambles up.

I don’t answer, first because I’m just so shocked to find them here — invading my space, touching my stuff, jumping on my bed — hello?

And then I see it — Tzivi’s exploring my night table, fingering the leather of my Shema card, reaching for my—

I lunge forward, grab my diary before she can open it.

“What are you doing in here?” I snap. My voice sounds harsh, tight, high-pitched. I breathe hard. The room is suddenly still.

“This isn’t your room,” I say into the thick silence. “Who told you you’re allowed to come in here, jump on the bed, take stuff without permission? What on earth were you thinking?”

Shani looks stricken. Dini and Tzivi giggle.

Oh, get out of here.

I stalk over to the bed. “Get out of this room,” I say, keeping my voice very low. “Get out before you’re in real trouble.”

Shani starts to cry. Oh, great, now I’m going to have her parents, Uncle Yossi and Aunt Malky, thinking I’ve been bullying her. Yes, I know how this family works by now, and Malky, the only sister-in-law in the family, is suuuuper sensitive about her kids being left out, or picked on, or whatever.

But I don’t care. If any of the aunts want to know what happened, I have no problem telling them. Let them deal with their kids coming into someone else’s room, spraying perfume, and going through my hair accessories and messing up my bed. What on earth?

“We’re going, we’re going,” Dini says petulantly, jumping down from the bed. She grabs Tzivi and the three of them run off.

“Moooommmy,” I hear Shani wail on her way down the stairs.

I pick up the throw pillow and then I see it: my makeup bag, open, eye shadow palette left carelessly on the floor. So they’ve been having fun with my makeup, too?

I slam my bedroom door shut, breathing hard. The doughnuts have lost their appeal; I feel invaded.

Even my room is not my own anymore? Even this?

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 971)