“Rebbetzin!” An elderly man across the street, setting his briefcase down in the back seat of his car, lifts his hand in a jaunty wave.
I smile back as I herd the boys to the bus stop.
I’m never going to get used to that. New house and street? Sure. New schools for the boys? Okay. New job for Mordy? I can handle it.
But being called Rebbetzin feels so foreign, like walking into the pediatrician’s office where I work and being addressed as doctor without going to medical school, without completing a residency, without getting hired. And it comes with a slew of questions, like do I wave back, or is that inappropriate? And am I supposed to wish him a good morning, too? Would a rebbetzin wish him a good morning? And you see him every morning, why can’t you remember his name? Will he think less of Mordy if you don’t?
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