All these years later, I knew I had done the right thing. I had followed the guidance of my mentors.

Still, sitting in a shiur, hearing Rabbi Mellin explain how we have an obligation to ask for forgiveness — even when we believe we’re in the right — gave me pause.

Twenty-five years had passed since I made that decision. And in twenty-five years, my mother and I had never once discussed it.

Twenty-five years since I had left home for the first time, stepped onto a plane for the first time, on my way to seminary. I was sure it would be one long year of camp. Best of all, I’d be on my own. Away from overbearing mom. The weeks before I left were filled with her stifling care.

“I bought you ten rolls of film, that should be enough for the year.”

“I hear winters are cold in Jerusalem. I bought you a pair of hot-pink slippers.”

“Don’t forget the lining to your raincoat.”

“I’ve packed you 20 cans of tuna fish. They don’t have Starkist over there.”

The night before my flight, Mom made me sit and check off the list.

“Winter skirts?”

“Check.”

“Summer skirts?”

“Check.”

“Woolen blanket?”

“Check.”

“Down jacket?”

“Check. No, wait — where’s my down jacket?”

“You don’t have it? Why don’t you have it? I told you to put it in this morning!”

Mom started pulling everything out of the suitcase. “It must be in here somewhere. You can’t go to Israel without your down jacket.”

The jacket was still in my closet. I’d forgotten to put it in my suitcase.

“What if you had gone to Israel without your coat? You would have frozen in the cold winter on those mountaintops. You would have gotten pneumonia and probably ended up in the hospital.” She was up to my deathbed when I put up my hand and said, “Mom, I’m not dying. I just forgot to pack my jacket.”