Did Nechemiah learn there? Was it a yeshivah? He spent a lot of time there, and she knew he was learning chassidus (“mindblowing stuff,” he liked to tell them)

"Here’s the thing you have to know.” Dovi Deringer spoke pleasantly, his smile spreading all the way up to his eyes as he tapped Yossi’s arm lightly, like they were best friends. “Nechemiah is a great kid. A great kid.”

He delivered this line like he’d done months of testing and was happy to share the diagnosis.

Yossi knew he should smile and just say thank you. That he should be grateful that Nechemiah had somewhere to hang out, a place other than the bedroom where he used to spend twenty-two hours a day. That there was light in his son’s eyes and purpose to his days and—

“He’s one of our superstars.” Deringer was still tapping, like Yossi’s arm was a drum. “But it doesn’t surprise me. You know, Rabbi Grabner, the first time I met Nechemiah, I knew he had what it takes… The other ones along his journey unfortunately missed it, but”—and here Rabbi Deringer lowered his voice conspiratorially—“that doesn’t surprise me either. That’s what they do best.”

Sorrow seemed to flow through him, a river of sadness washing away the last remnants of the wide smile.

The others, Yossi told Hindy that night as she was frantically trying to get ready for Wilder’s chasunah, didn’t just mean the rebbeim and teachers, but also them, the parents.

“Us, Hindy, in case you don’t understand. Us. We’re the enemy, the ones who ‘missed’ seeing how great Nechemiah is.”

Yossi had made his tie, but now he undid it and started again. “I mean, what do you expect — we have seven other children and we both work and Nechemiah is just one of the children, you know? We were distracted, of course we missed it. We wanted him to fit into a box, to make us look good. Cookie-cutter parenting, all about appearances, yada yada yada.”

She couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic, and she turned fully to look at him.

“Yes, Hindy, I’m being sarcastic.”

She was quiet. She understood his hurt. Yossi had done it all: woken up early to learn with Nechemiah when it seemed like that was the solution, then he’d stopped tutoring in the afternoon to go shoot baskets with Nechemiah when that looked like that might help, and then given up his night seder chavrusa to hang out with Nechemiah when the rebbi said that would make things right.

Yossi and Hindy had gone to meetings — so many meetings, long, drawn-out affairs in cramped menahel offices with buzzing fluorescent lights and orange tiles and confidential admissions that “we tried everything, the rebbi is really very good,” and then, of course, the next hallway: Go through Door B to start with the professionals. So they’d done that too.

ADHD, ODD, depression, certainly an executive function issue, you must get an appointment with Blanker, he’s the best. Swipe, fill out this form, swipe some more. Nechemiah had dutifully gone along as his mother, forced to take off from work, would try to spin it as some pleasant day off. Let’s go for ice cream. Let’s discuss which toppings, hot fudge or colored sprinkles or both, ten minutes after an overly tall doctor with a nasal voice asked if you ever think about doing something harmful to yourself, you know, and how often.

Yossi wasn’t done yet. They were going to be late for the chasunah, but he needed to lean against the edge of the dresser and wave his hands to say this. “And we’re actually worse, because all parents are bad, but kal v’chomer a chinuch family. The father’s a rebbi! The worst. Teaches others people’s children and can’t reach his own, look at that.”

His imitating-voice, a cross between Dr. Middos and a Borscht Belt comedian, was always the same. He used it for Uncle Chaim, the president of the school where he taught, Janklowitz the mortgage guy, and now, it was apparently Dovi Deringer.

She waited until they were in the car to speak. He knew her arguments: Nechemiah’s happy, Rabbi Deringer is a fine person, it’s better than being home all day. But deep down, she agreed with him that Rabbi Deringer and the whole Inner Dimensions thing was a silent war against the parents, a small, yellow converted house down Squankum that stood as a monument mocking the system and its failures.

They were going to miss the smorgasbord, she knew, and arrive just as somber-faced waiters would be resolutely slamming the lids on heating dishes and pulling away the last of the chicken lo mein and pineapple beef, and that would do nothing for her husband’s mood.

Oif simchahs, she thought as they found a spot at the very end of the parking lot and walked in together.