Uuuuch. I hate this. I hate the fact that Mommy is never home anymore

The house is strangely quiet when I enter, hot after the walk home from school. There’s no ballet today, due to studio repairs, and I’m feeling aimless and bored, despite my Herschel bag weighed down with homework and review notes. Kicking off my shoes, I dump the bag on a kitchen chair, untuck my uniform shirt, and start opening and closing cabinet doors, in search of the perfect snack.

I spy Mommy’s note just as I’m piling sandwich cookies onto a napkin.

Went to hospital to see Babby.

Lasagna in the fridge. 

Love you.

Uuuuch. I hate this. I hate the fact that Mommy is never home anymore. Maybe I’m a terrible granddaughter, but I just really miss having someone to talk to when I get home from school. I feel a rush of guilt. Okay, no, I want Babby to have company. That hospital was horrible and cold, and I’m glad Mommy’s there with her. But how come Tanta Perel can’t fly in from Chicago? Or Uncle Baruch from L.A.? Why is Mommy the only one abandoning her family?

I’m just downing a cup of milk in annoyed silence when Naftoli shuffles into the kitchen. I raise my eyebrows at his pajama-attire and look pointedly at the clock.

“Was taking a nap,” he mutters, embarrassed. I raise my eyebrows again.

“What?” he snaps. “I have no schedule. Let me wallow, please.”

He stomps to the fridge and starts pulling out a crazy assortment of foods that looks like they should never be eaten together.

I shrug. Hey, I’m all for wallowing but if I were the one taking the fall for a friend, I would make sure the yeshivah knew about it. I would make sure they felt really, really bad about it. But Naftoli is just bending his head and not saying a word. To be honest, I’m totally in awe of him. He is a far superior human being than I am. But his passiveness is also getting on my nerves, not least because I know how much the situation pains Mommy.

“So how long is this suspension going to last?” I ask, breaking the silence. Naftoli looks up from the elaborate sandwich he is creating.

“Not sure,” he says, spooning leftover cholent onto a strip of corned beef.

I try not to gag.