A celebration of the walls that surround, protect, and define us
Arriving straight from the airport, I turned the key and stepped inside.
I was shocked — my house was clean.
Twelve days earlier, I’d left Memphis for Chicago with just my baby, and I was there, at my mother’s bedside, when she passed away a few days later. My husband and three older kids were at home. Due to severe fog that somehow only impacted air travel between Memphis and Chicago (a Hashgachah pratis story for another time), they were unable to make it to the funeral but would join me in a few days.
Second night of shivah: My parents’ house in Peterson Park was bustling with visitors, and I ignored the buzzing phone in my lap. When it continued to vibrate, I looked down — it was my husband calling repeatedly (our super-secret signal for emergencies). I picked up.
As soon as I heard his voice I knew: Something was horribly wrong.
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