Not too long ago, my husband had broached the idea of joining his parents on a flight to the United States, accompanying his father to a complicated, delicate surgery. It would leave me alone with all the kids and no break in sight.

“What do you think?” he asked me gently. “Tatty needs me. And Ma… she won’t say it, but she’s terrified. She’s been a wreck since the surgery was scheduled.”

He was right. My mother-in-law didn’t say it outright, but we were all able to sense it in her tight smile. And of all her sons, my husband was the best candidate to join them. He was the most capable, and while he was Israeli, he’d lived in the United States for a few years after we got married, so he was the only one familiar with the culture and language.

I had nodded, biting back the loneliness that already whispered at the edges of my resolve. “Go, Yossi. It’s the right thing to do.”

It was. Even if my “no break in sight” multiplied tenfold when Israel attacked Iran just two days after my husband had left, stranding him in America. Even if it meant singlehandedly getting all the kids to the shelter in 90 seconds. Even if it meant keeping a calm face though I was a mess inside, even if it meant bedtime battles times three every night, and even if it meant — to be self-indulgent for a minute here — missing out on the rare, quiet mornings when my husband and I shared a coffee before he left the house.

As challenging as it was for me to manage the household and juggle all the school-less kids on my own, I knew, deep down, that it was even harder on my husband. Being thousands of miles away, an ocean between us; he carried the heavy weight of his helplessness. From a distance, every news update feels more urgent, every missile alert more ominous. And for him — thinking about his wife and children stuck in a war-torn country while unable to do anything but wait — it was an emotional strain that no amount of phone calls could ease.

So to show my husband how much we missed him, we decided to send him a fruit platter. Eretz Yisrael is a treasure trove of delicious produce, but a season is a season — and how! My husband enjoys exotic fruits that aren’t available year-round in Yerushalayim, so I figured a fruit platter would be a nice gesture. Our way of sending love.

…And my in-laws thought it was meant for them.

My eyes fell on the kitchen counter, where the handwritten card that we’d photographed for the fruit merchant to print was still sitting. It read:

To: Tatty

Thinking of you and would love to be closer!

Love, all your kinderlach who miss you so much

I could understand the confusion. My husband shared the same last name as his father, of course. And since “Tatty” was a title that both of them held in our sprawling family, the gift had naturally been assumed to be for my father-in-law. The card hadn’t mentioned the names of my children, and it was delivered to the hospital room.

Minutes after the hotline announcement, my phone exploded like a domino chain I couldn’t stop. Every sister-in-law felt the need to thank me for the thoughtfulness and for including everyone in the gift.

“Wow, that fruit platter was such a beautiful gesture,” my sister-in-law Faigy said. “I love how you signed from all of us!”

“Ma hasn’t stopped smiling since she saw it,” added Suri. “So thoughtful.”

I turned to my daughter, Chayala, who had just awakened and emerged from her room (war vacation!), still rubbing her eyes.

“I think,” I said slowly, “there’s been a bit of a mix-up.”

Chayala yawned. “What kind of mix-up?”

I pressed play on the message.

As soon as she heard her grandmother’s voice, she started laughing. “Wait. That fruit platter… for Tatty. The one we sent to the hospital? Bobby thought it was for Zeidy?”

“Apparently,” I said, “it was hand delivered… to the wrong Tatty Gross.”

“You’re kidding. But listen to Bobby! I haven’t heard her this animated in a while.”

“True.” The glow in my mother-in-law’s voice. The way she felt the achdus of all her children. Truthfully, her children are usually the kind to consider thoughtful gestures, but with everything happening during the war, everyone’s minds have understandably been mushy.

There was a silence as we looked at each other. “Do we tell them?” my daughter asked suddenly.

“Nah,” I said thoughtfully. “Let’s keep it our little secret.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 970)