The Millers’ house appeared before me. I shook my head to clear my thoughts as I climbed the front steps.

The door opened to reveal eight-year-old Aryeh perched atop a bookshelf. He launched himself off to greet me, hitting the floor with a rather disquieting crash.

“Hi, Chavi. I’m soooooooooo bored.”

Five-year-old Liba, ooh, can we put Tuvia in and pretend he’s a—”

“Hi, Gedalia,” I called, diverting this dangerous train of thought and greeting the little boy descending the stairs. He was struggling to carry baby Tuvia. I hurried over and scooped up the baby.

“Did Tuvia just wake up?” I asked. Gedalia nodded. “Was he crying, and I couldn’t hear?” Another nod. “Thank you, Gedalia. You’re such a great brother!” A shy smile and a faint flush on pale cheeks. Seven-year-old Gedalia, afflicted with a heavy stutter, didn’t speak much. He was nonetheless my favorite among the exuberant Miller kids. Their polar opposite in many ways, he was reticent, soulful, and sensitive.

“Zeeskeit, can you watch Tuvi in the playpen while I make his bottle?” I laid the baby down and went to the kitchen, thinking of what Mrs. Miller had told me about the bullying Gedalia faced in school.

“He’s been called baby, dummy, brainless — when will it end? When will his classmates grow up?”

I had no answer. From my experience, bullying didn’t stop as kids grew older. It just grew subtler, more refined, and ever-more painful.

My phone beeped, interrupting my glum reflections. Sima Stein. Now, of all times. With a sharp breath, I pressed reject.

Well, at least at home Gedalia was safe from teasing. Aryeh and Liba protected him fiercely. And, over the last few months, he had gotten so used to me that he’d even started speaking to me. This thought made me smile as I reentered the living room. “Ok, kids,” I sang out, “who wants to hear a story?”

Liba considered, crossing her little arms. “Okay,” she conceded. “For a little bit. But then we make a pool.”

Gedalia seated himself expectantly on the couch. I joined him as Liba plopped down beside me. Aryeh arranged himself on the back of the couch and ordered, “A reeeeeeeally scary story. With pirates. And robbers. And soldiers.”

“And a fireman who makes cupcakes,” Liba instructed.

“And a r-rebbi,” Gedalia requested softly.

Fortunately, I was prepared for this tall order. Aryeh’s heroes were soldiers, policemen, and pirates. Liba dreamed of opening the world’s first combo fire-station-bakeshop. Gedalia, who adored his father, a well-respected rebbi, dreamed of little else than being just like him.

Amazing how the same three characters could generate so many story lines. Last week, Mrs. Fire Chief had opened her fire station to Berel the Bandit and Shmerel the Pirate on a snowy day, serving them homemade cupcakes until the pair began to boast about their exploits, alarming their hostess. It had taken the arrival of Mrs. Fire Chief’s brother, the rebbi who’d taught Berel and Shmerel as kids, to whip the criminals into shape and help them launch new, honest careers.

I hoped that today’s story would keep the kids as quiet as the last one had. I began by relating how Reb Feivel the menahel had charged Zundel the General and his army with capturing Shmerel the Pirate, who had apparently returned to his old ways. Their mission was halted in its tracks, however, by a nudge from Liba.

“Did they take cupcakes for lunch?” she hinted subtly.

“Sure. And do you know who baked them?”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Fire Chief, the World’s Greatest Firefighter!”

“Was Zundel the World’s Greatest General?” Aryeh inquired keenly.

“Yup,” I confirmed. “And Reb Feivel was the World’s Greatest Rebbi.”

“Know why we need firefighters?” said Aryeh. “Because Shmerel makes fires everywhere. He’s the World’s Meanest Man.”

Gedalia flushed slightly. He was trying to speak. I looked him in the eye, nodding encouragingly. “Do you agree, Gedalia?”

“No,” he managed finally. “Maybe h-he’s not… the meanest. Maybe the p-people who… own the houses hurt his f-feelings.”

I glanced at Gedalia in surprise, my heart squeezing. To be so young, so mistreated, yet so thoughtful and generous…. Something stirred deep inside me.

Zundel and his men, meanwhile, had been ambushed by cupcake-stealing monsters. The ensuing battle was reaching its peak when Aryeh interrupted to report that my phone was ringing. I checked the screen. Fraidy. Relieved, I answered.

“Hi, Fraidy, I’m kinda busy. Can it wait?”

“No, Chavi.” She sounded strained. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” I sighed, calculating that suspense would probably keep the kids sitting for another two minutes. “What is it?”

There was a long silence. Then Fraidy said quietly, “I just hung up with Sima.”

I felt my whole body tense. “No. No.”

“Please hear me out, Chavs. She… she was crying.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I scoffed.

“Chavi.” Fraidy sounded subdued. “She wanted me to tell you that her family’s been keeping this secret all year long, and…”

“And what?”

“Her sister got really sick over the summer. Then she got a little better, and recently she took a turn for the worst. They… they’re really worried.”

Air gushed out of my lungs.

“Oh,” I said.

“She wants you to know,” Fraidy persisted, “that she feels terrible about last summer. She was in so much pain, under such pressure, that she couldn’t stop herself from taking it out on someone. She wishes she could undo it, but now all she can do is beg your mechilah. She really wants to go into Yom Tov knowing you forgive her. For her sister’s sake.”

“Oh,” I repeated. An army of conflicted feelings surged up in my heart. I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Please, Chavs.” Fraidy said earnestly. “Call her back. Try to forgive her.”

“I can’t.” It was impossible. It was like asking someone to glue his broken leg back together by hand.

“Yes, you can,” Fraidy whispered. “You have it in you. I know you do. No matter what it takes. You’re bigger than this.” She paused, waited, and sighed. “Just… think about it. Okay?”

“’Kay,” I murmured. “Bye, Fraidy. Thanks.”

Roiling emotions made it hard to refocus on storytelling. I somehow guided Zundel to victory on the pirate ship while my thoughts flew far away. What should I do? I couldn’t even speak to her, let alone forgive her — but how could I ignore her now?

My inner dilemma continued, leaving only part of my attention available for the kids’ conversation.

“When I’m big, I’m gonna be just like Zundel,” I heard Aryeh declare, brandishing an imaginary sword. “Pow! You bad guys are finished!”

“I’m gonna be like Mrs. Fire Chief,” Liba announced. “I’ll shpritz out fires and give cupcakes to the kids so they won’t be sad.” She turned to Gedalia. “Do you wanna be like Reb Feivel? The best rebbi in the world?”

Gedalia gazed at her soberly. Then he turned to me. “Chavi?” he asked. “D-do you think—?”

“Hmm?” I asked absently.

“D’you think that Gedalia could be the best rebbi in the world?” Liba spoke for him.

I was at a loss. I looked at him, at the sweet face, eyes full of wisdom, mouth so stubbornly unwieldy. I sent up a silent tefillah for the right words. And then, with startling ease, Fraidy’s sentence of a few minutes before flowed through my lips. “I know you can. You have it in you. No matter what it takes.”

Gedalia relaxed. His sober eyes smiled. His next words were surprisingly strong and clear. “I’m hungry, Chavi. W-what’s for supper?”

I grinned, standing up. “Mommy ordered pizza!” Three eager kids leapt after me to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, their mother returned. I said a quick goodbye and flew home. I had a phone call to make.

(Originally Featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 756)