My children would get their afikomen

IN

my family, afikomen was always a big deal. My father would make an elaborate show of hiding the bigger piece of matzah inside his kittel, and the game would begin. We would make our way to his seat and delight as his eyes widened in surprise as his grip slackened.

“Wow! How did you get that? I was holding on to it so tightly!”

It was the best part of the Seder, a minhag I told my husband he’d have to adopt. His family did not really “do” the afikomen for reasons I couldn’t understand. I felt bad for my husband and his siblings. No child of mine would be similarly deprived.

Enter our first family Seder in my own home. My husband puts up with a lot, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about afikomen. Pesach is nothing if not the Yom Tov of mesorah, and this wasn’t his.

Me, I’d have none of it. I had cleaned and kashered and shopped and cooked, my children involved every step of way. I’d gotten them excited and forced them to nap and looked at their Haggados. After all that, they would get their afikomen. I deserved it.