She’d never entertained the thought that Abba might genuinely be afraid of someone finding him
Abba wasn’t a thief. Rivi knows this, and she refuses to let Gabe invent some dastardly backstory for their father. He had clearly gotten into some questionable activities, but that’s all they know. They don’t need to ascribe new sins to him.
The only thing he’d stolen was an identity.
Still, she doesn’t sleep. She stares up at the ceiling, her hands clasped over her stomach like a simulacrum of the dead at rest, and the memories rise up in her mind.
Abba put a hunting rifle in her hands when she was nine, his arms around hers. She’d wanted to be good at it. He seemed so stern about it, so serious, and she thought that it must be important, something special. A way to protect Gavriel. Aim, Abba told her. Breathe in, release. Steady. She hit the target on her third try, and Abba was impressed. A natural, he’d said, and Rivi had glowed with pride.
This one’s in print. Some of our best stories live in the magazine — subscribe to get Mishpacha every week.
