Feeling pathetic, I head outside, and with my eyes on the sidewalk, I start walking. I don’t have any destination in mind, but walking outside in the clear, crisp, late afternoon air is better than sitting in my room thinking dark thoughts.

My feet lead me in the direction of the small neighborhood shul. I’ve davened Minchah already, but I slow down as I approach it. The sounds of people learning come through the window, and I let the voices wash over me. I stand there for a while until someone opens the door and starts walking down the steps. I jump and quickly start walking again. 

As I am about to turn the corner, I notice a plain white envelope lying on the sidewalk. Glancing over my shoulder, I bend down and pick it up. It’s pretty clean, and the corners are still sharp, which could only mean it was dropped not long ago. Curiosity propels my fingers to flip the envelope over, but there’s no sign of whom it may belong to, no writing, no address, nothing. 

I look around again, trying to shake off the feeling of a million eyes watching my every move. Something feels wrong. I tuck the envelope into my pocket and about-face, back in the direction of my house.

When I walk in there’s the good smell of food cooking. It smells like warmth and like full bellies. I walk past the kitchen, hesitate for just a moment and then keep going, the envelope featherlight but at the same time heavy in my hands.

When I get to my room, I shut the door. The sheets are threadbare; usually it bothers me but now I don’t notice. I turn the envelope over and over in my hands. It’s not mine, doesn’t belong to me. But maybe inside there’ll be a clue with which I can do the mitzvah of hashovas aveida.

I ease the envelope open slowly and carefully, but I’m holding it upside down. Instead of keeping the contents safely tucked inside, they spill out all over my bed and the floor like softly falling snow: $50 bills, more than you can count.

I touch them, finger them, check that they’re real. Hold them up to the light. Count them. It takes ages. There is $4,000 in this envelope, all in $50 bills. Fancy halls, live music, and caterers dance before my eyes. A new suit. A hat. A nice one, like Mordy Heller got. A crisp, white, new shirt. 

The money burns holes in my hands. It’s not mine. 

Surely it would be a mitzvah to take it, I rationalize. Surely only rich people drop envelopes containing such large sums of money. Surely they’d be glad a nice family found it and would be happy to provide an honorable bar mitzvah for a poor boy. We get tzedakah anyway, I tell myself. This will be a zechus for the person who lost the money.

I imagine my parents’ faces when I hand them the money. When I tell them someone gave it to me for my bar mitzvah. I imagine the relief. The joy. The worry lines easing, the tired eyes lighting up.

I’m sweating. This money doesn’t belong to me. It’s not mine.

But I need it, I need it so badly.

I sit on my bed, motionless, frozen, my thoughts galloping around my brain like wild horses racing, thundering, hooves crashing. I need this money. I found it. It can be mine. I’m sure that’s the halachah. Positive.

But it doesn’t feel right.

My fingers tremble as I take a marker and tear a paper from my loose-leaf. FOUND, I write. I stop, shivering. Take a deep breath. Pick up the marker again. A sum of money. The caller would have to provide simanim, of course. A crisp, white envelope. Fifty-dollar bills. Four thousand dollars. 

My throat feels dry. I lick my lips. Swallow. Tear a piece of Scotch tape off the roll in my knapsack. Affix it to the paper.

The staircase is long. Endless. Tantalizing smells tickle my nose from the kitchen. I hesitate again. 

I can’t do this. I need this money.

It’s not mine.

Pull the door open. Walk. One foot in front of the next and again. Past the shul. A streetlight, the pole a silent witness. My fingers feel cold as I tape my sign up. Then I turn away, head low, hands thrust deep in my pockets as the money warms my fingers.

Footsteps behind me. I whirl around. It’s my father.

“Gavi?” His breathing is hard.

“Tatty?”

“You… you found the envelope? The $4,000?”

My mouth drops open. Tatty’s tense shoulders fall. “Your bar mitzvah money,” he whispers. “The money for your tefillin.”

I stare.

“We’ve been saving, Gavi. For you. For years. I was on my way to the sofer.”

I still can’t speak, but fall onto my father’s solid frame, and am enveloped in a strong, warm hug.  

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 751)