From the sidelines, my stomach turned. My girls got kisses and hugs and waved their Bubby off with a smile. Shimmy got nary a glance
S
himmy wasn’t always Shimmy. He was once a newborn like any other, just so much more precious because he was ours. We named him Shimon Nechemia, after my husband’s paternal grandfather who passed away a few short months earlier.
My father-in-law reacted to the name in his usual staid manner. An approving nod, a grateful smile. “May you see much nachas!” he said. His wife gifted us with an elegant layette set from one of the upscale shops in town. They shared their brachos, snapped some photos, and left the bris.
At the other end of the room, my mother-in-law exploded. Luckily, I was spared the brunt of her wrath. I guess being a kimpeturin entitled me to some space. But I can’t say the same for my husband Zev — or little Shimmy.
While Shimmy’s name couldn’t have been a more natural pick (there were no other grandfathers to name for), to my mother-in-law, it was the ultimate betrayal. Her heart is split squarely between animosity toward her ex, and her love for her only child and his kids. And now we’d gone and blurred the two. It was too much for her to bear.
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