Q
uiet, blessed quiet. Gabriella sank down in her den recliner. She didn’t know why the kids had been giving her such a hard time at bedtime recently; this was the third night in a row that Levi had a tantrum during his bath.
Were her children attention-starved? It was already almost a month since she’d come home from Bulgaria, but maybe they still hadn’t gotten over her being away? Or were they sensing how consumed she was by the film editing? How overwhelmed by the promotions for her documentary?
Guilt, guilt, guilt. There was no end to a Jewish mother’s guilt.
Then, rolling her eyes at herself (All you need is the Bubby kerchief and the Yiddish accent… like you ever had a problem with too much Jewish mother’s guilt), she strode over to the computer desk and pulled open the drawer. She’d hidden the film festival brochure under a pile of old tax forms. Now, she snatched it out, ran her fingers eagerly over the words: “Inner Covers by Gabriella Acker.” The sight still made her feel giddy.
