One year, Shira Rosen asked me about my mother’s hot-pink sweater. Her mother had come home from PTA and told her that she must find out where Raizy Fruchter’s mother shopped, because she always had the cutest clothes. Cutest, my foot. Most outlandish, I’d say. I’d told Shira that my mother usually hits the malls, and then proceeded to ask her whether Miss Poltman had told her mother about the time she cut class.

Shira had probably forgotten about the sweater, but I was convinced she hadn’t. There was no way in the world the rest of the class could see my mother in action. This was not happening. My mother could not be at the choir performance.

All plans of keeping the mother-daughter event classified were dropped when the mail came. I walked into the house on Tuesday, two weeks before SE-Day (Super Embarrassing Day!) to my mother waving a brightly colored invitation. Apparently, Ateres Faiga had gotten super fancy this year.

“This is so exciting, motek!” She giggled as she pecked me on my cheek. “I’m happy to finally be seeing your whole class.” She handed me a slip of paper. “And I write that I will be doing the cheesecake for the brunch. Please, Raizy, give this to the teacher.” My mother’s accent, usually one I barely heard, now drilled into my nerves. This was not happening. But it was.

I smiled wanly and took the paper. “I have a lot of homework,” I mumbled as I bolted from the kitchen.

SE-Day did come. The school cafeteria was decorated in gaily waving blue and white Chanukah designs. My classmates rushed around, putting finishing touches on the tables, and fixing the chairs.

Ruchy and I had been told to place the ice-cold cappuccinos on the tables five minutes before eleven. Holding two glass pitchers in my hand, I bumped right into my mother as she walked in.

My first thought, Her yellow coat clashes with the décor, was followed a moment later by, Does she have to wear purple wedges?! But I mustered a “Hi, Ma,” trying to appear confident to my friends. This was sooo hard for me.

My mother wrapped me in a hug, disregarding the tottering pitchers in my hands. She laughed loudly to my friends. “Leeba, Ruchy! So nice to seeing you.”

I cringed, but smiled and decided to pretend to bear it. And hoped no one else came over to join us.

The choir was starting in a few minutes. “See you soon, Ma,” I whispered, and I rushed backstage to join my classmates. I just hoped she’d find a seat without making too much of a ruckus.

By now, most of my classmates were with me behind stage. I don’t know what made me peek, but I did. From behind the curtains, I looked at the crowd of mothers that had gathered.

And then I saw Rachelli.

Rachelli was the latest addition to our class, her fun and charismatic personality attracting all. She had only joined us this year, but was already part of the “in group,” and well-liked by all. She was tall and striking, and had the kindest blue eyes. You couldn’t help but like her.

Rachelli was walking in, alongside a woman in a wheelchair. She was talking to her, with excitement and a real smile.

This couldn’t be.

Rachelli’s mother.

I watched Rachelli walk over to Mrs. Klinger and introduce her mother. Rachelli smiled happily, as Mrs. Klinger seemed to be saying kind things about her, leaning down to her mother.

I searched Rachelli’s eyes for some trace of discomfort, embarrassment. And found none. Apparently, she didn’t share my vision of SE-Day.

Rachelli joined us backstage two minutes later. She slipped into her costume, chattering with her friends, just being her usual happy self.

But I’d seen more.

I’d seen strength. Acceptance.

And if she could do that, I could learn to do it too.

As we finished the strains of the last melody, and headed off stage to our mothers, I rushed into my mother’s embrace. Her accented “Good job,” and “Yofi, Raizy!” were music to my ears.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 644)