“Maaaaa. We’re not moving to Boston. Just, you know, Yonah’s parents are moving on and people got kind of carried away”

T

he rain had started somewhere along the I-95 and hadn’t let up in about an hour. Which was just fine with Estee.

“I just don’t understand,” she said for around the 50th time. “Us? Like, us? Move to Boston? Live in a big old house with five bedrooms?”

“And a backyard and a wraparound porch,” Yonah said dreamily.

“Exactly! That’s totally insane! We’re, like, five years old. And can you imagine me putting up a huge soup every Sunday and then delivering it all over? And, like, arranging things for people?”

“You make great soup,” Yonah said loyally.

Estee banged on the glove compartment. “Yonah Tzvi Rosen! That is not the point. The point is that we just… no! We are not! We cannot! Is he insane?”

She knew she was losing it, but she felt it was crucial to convey to her husband exactly how ludicrous this idea was.

Except that Yonah seemed to be lost in some sort of daydream. “Did you know,” he said, nostalgia coloring his voice, “that they got the swing set when I was born? Before that, according to my siblings, everyone just played with sticks and mud. Same with the trampoline. What can I say, I was just too adorable.”

“Wow, what happened?”

He put a hand to his chest. “Ouch. Shots fired.”

She rolled her eyes. “Eh, you’re fine. Bostonians are made from strong stuff. And no,” she cut him off, “I do not want that for our future children, thanks for asking.”