“It won’t happen again,” I said firmly, and turned to my schnitzel, wanting to end the whole conversation

“SO

I think it’s time to look into possible group homes for Chezky,” my husband said casually, leaning against the counter as I fried schnitzel.

I froze, my tongs in midair. “Why would we want to do that?” I asked, staring at him in shock. It was a few weeks after sheva brachos, and I’d been riding on a high from the simchah. “Chezky’s doing so much better lately. This new dosage is working well for him. He’s even slept every night now for a week. Things are going great!”

“For now,” said my husband ominously. “Until next time.”

“Why should there be a next time?” I argued. “If the issue was medication, then we’ve got it licked. I don’t see any purpose in looking into options of something we’re never going to need.”

“Covid is still going on,” my husband pointed out. “Chezky has been home all day for months now.”

“But special ed is opening again. And he’s almost well enough to go back to school.”

“Tzippi,” my husband said softly, and despite the gentleness of his voice, I shivered at the sense of steel I got behind his words, “what will we do if this happens again?”

“It won’t happen again,” I said firmly, and turned to my schnitzel, wanting to end the whole conversation.

Chezky was ours, our son, our responsibility. And while yes, I’d needed a hospital during those critical tumultuous weeks, now we were back on even ground, and it was time to go forward. I’d been feeling so positive lately, so convinced that this was all behind us. I felt like I was unthawing after a long and stormy winter. Even my sense of humor was returning — I think I’d missed that the most!