“You are going back to Lakewood. Did you forget something? Maybe a husband?”

G

olda was the first one to respond.

She would have loved to be anywhere aside from that hospital room. She and Dovid had very clear rules for dealing with mechutanim: stay far away.

Don’t be friends; no coffee dates or family trips, just invites to simchahs and sighs of happiness over shared nachas. Sitting in a hospital room while her mechuteneste swept in like a tornado, bulldozing everything in her path, did not follow their tried-and-true rules.

But she had to say something.

“Tamar, did you drive all the way here? You must have been so worried. Baruch Hashem, it was just dehydration. Why don’t you sit and we can discuss it.” Calmly, she tacked on mentally. We can all discuss it calmly.

But Tamar Lefkowitz missed her telepathic message.

“Thank you, Golda, I appreciate it. But it’s a long drive back, and I’d prefer to leave right away. Estee, sweetheart, do you need help? Golda, where are discharge papers? How do we—”

“The doctor said she should rest.” The words were said in a fierce, low voice that Golda had never heard her son use before. She glanced at him in alarm. Don’t do anything stupid, she thought, before forgetting her telepathy line was apparently jammed.