You may not agree with our choices, but why are you punishing my son?
I pulled my cardigan edges tightly and hugged my arms to myself in the cool, late-summer air, craning for the sound of footsteps. I turned back toward my house across the street, as if by looking I could tell whether Azi had woken up and was looking for me. Then I knocked. I could hear happy voices inside, a bubble of excited sound even through the heavy door. I knocked again, loudly, and finally, Suri pulled the door open. Tziri and Devorah were there, on the couch, Tziri’s toddler at her feet, slamming Magna-Tiles together, and Devorah’s five-year-old daughter on her lap, sucking her thumb and twirling her hair.
“Hi, Suri, sorry to bother you again,” I said, proud that my voice faltered only a little bit. “Would it be okay if I heard Havdalah here tonight?”
“Oh, hi, Chayala,” she said, sugar in her voice. “My husband isn’t home yet. Come back and check every few minutes, ’kay?” She turned to respond to something Devora had told Tziri about playgroup morahs. I was out of place.
“Thanks,” I said quietly and turned back home.
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