“Look at me for what I am. I’m a senior accountant at my firm, I pay taxes, pay my own health insurance, pay my own expenses, and to you I’m still a child. Because I’m not married, I’m a child. Does that make sense?”,
“Ma I’m 31 and you treat me like a teenager. What time I come home when I should call what I can or can’t do for yuntiff. Pretend I got married at 20. I’d be married for ten years now probably have I don’t know four kids — would you tell me what time to come home what I should do for yuntiff? No I’d probably be making yuntiff myself by now!”
“Idon’t know where I’m putting everyone” Chava Konig said into the phone. She spoke an octave higher than necessary. “There’s no room. Plain and pashut. My house is not the Beis Hamikdash.” She twirled the phone cord around her fingers enjoying the sensation it gave her — feeling it tighten cut off circulation and then unwinding it feeling the release as blood pooled back into her fingers. You couldn’t do this with a cordless she always told her kids.
“What about Shevy’s room?” her sister on the other end of the line suggested.
“You’re right!” Chava said. “I didn’t think of moving Shevy her room is the biggest after the master — I could fit a whole family in there!”
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