Why don’t I know this? Why hasn’t she shared it with me? What’s Ima’s secret?

I sit on my bed, just sit there, trying to process. After what feels like an hour but is probably more like several minutes, I get up, stuff the letter in the darkest, most hidden corner of the dresser drawers, and somehow find myself getting ready for bed on autopilot.

Shower. Brush teeth. Say Shema.

Turn off nightlight, roll over, try to sleep.

All the while, my mind roiling with questions, questions, questions.

I wake up in the morning with a pit in my stomach, and for a moment I can’t remember why.

Then it comes back to me. Ima. The letter. The secret.

I’m not in the mood of talking to anyone, so I decide to skip breakfast with my grandparents and just hang out here upstairs until it’s time to leave the house.

My stomach rumbles as I slowly, slowly get into my uniform, prepare my bag, and check my timetable to make sure I have everything I need. (I do. There’s barely any homework due, and my stuff is all in school, anyway.)

I make my bed and straighten a couple of knickknacks on the dresser. Are they Ima’s, too? Were they witness to her stormy teenage years, to the crises she hinted at in the letter? Do they — the little collection of seashells, an empty jewelry box topped with a ballerina, a ceramic teddy bear with a #1 Friend plaque — know more than I do?

Fifteen minutes before I need to leave the house, there’s a soft knock at the bedroom door.

“Ashira?”

Oh my goodness, seriously? Is Bubby coming to wake me for school? Or find out why I’m not downstairs eating breakfast? Does she want to tell me my toast is ready?

I open the door, reluctantly.

“Ashira, oh, good, you’re ready for school,” she says. The thoughts flash through my mind — Was Bubby like this as a mother? Did Ima get irritated by the hovering, the constant checking in? Was that why she wanted to leave? — but I dismiss them. The letter wasn’t a teenage girl annoyed that her mother kept offering her toast for breakfast.

It was about something more than that.

“I’m just getting ready,” I mumble, making to close the door, but Bubby holds out her hand, and with it, the phone.

“Ashira, it’s your mother, she called to speak to you.”

Ima is on the phone.

I’ve been trying to get hold of her for three days, and now, when she finally, finally, calls, I don’t know how I’m even going to speak to her.

“Ashira! Our phone lines have been terrible the last few days, and I just had to hear your voice. How are you, honey?”

Ima’s words ooze warmth and love. I want to just go back in time, forget the letter I’ve seen and the secrets they hinted at, and just melt into the sound of her voice.

But I can’t.

The questions hang between us, making my words choppy, jerky.

I need answers, and I’m scared to get them.

“Hi, Ima,” I say. My mouth is very, very dry.

“Did I wake you up?” Ima says, laughing. “I figured you’d be getting ready for school now, but we can speak later, after, if you—”

I can’t keep it in any longer.

“Ima,” I interrupt. “There’s something… I need to ask you.”

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 952)