Chayala stared at the phone incredulously. The things that mothers could get away with saying, it was really remarkable

Chayala knew from the “Hi Sweetie” text that something was way off.

She thought back on the last 28 years of her life — a life that was utterly predictable and ordinary and comfortable and fine — and reflected that any time she’d been thrown into disarray, it had been preceded by a “Hi Sweetie.”

As in: Hi Sweetie, do you mind making sure the kids eat supper this week and next? Tatty and I found cheap flights to Israel and we’re leaving tonight. You’re in charge. And, Hi Sweetie, would you mind if Suri starts dating? I know she’s four years younger than you, but people are talking. And the memorable, Hi Sweetie, the shadchan just called and he decided he’s not ready to get engaged… he wants to take a break.

Chayala knew her mother meant well. But she sure did love to drop a bomb via text message.

She steeled herself for the inevitable and called.

“Hi, sweetie!”

There it was again. Her mother’s voice, tinny from the speakerphone, filled the car Chayala sat parked in. Her preferred spot was shaded by a big tree, and the AC was on, but still she felt overheated.

“Hi, Ma,” Chayala said cautiously. “Is everything okay?”