W
hen my mother tapped on my door at midnight, I jumped. “Can you come out a sec, Devora?”
I stuffed my cellphone under my pillow like a criminal. Why was I hiding my phone from my mother? She had nothing against me schmoozing on the phone with friends.
My heart was pumping fast, and I knew why. Sometimes my mother asked me who I was talking to. Not because it mattered, only out of mild curiosity, innocent small talk. I never minded. But this wasn’t Miriam or Shevy or Gila, my regular phone pals. If I told her I was talking to Ahuva, she would raise her eyebrows and ask, “Ahuva who? Which Ahuva?” And what would I answer? “Ahuva, the girl who works for Mr. Templer, you know, that marketing company I do copy for”? Right, and why exactly was I talking to my client’s secretary on Motzaei Shabbos at midnight?
To my relief, she didn’t seem to realize I’d been speaking on the phone and didn’t ask any questions. I followed her to the kitchen where she solicited my opinion on her Shavuos menu.
