Hashem doesn’t need bargain basements and secondhand deals. He has all the money and all the furniture in the world
IS this actually happening? I look in the mirror. I don’t look like a total adult. I look young and happy, my gray beanie and crimpy fall look on point, and my husband, Binyamin, looks even younger, a perpetual bar mitzvah boy. But here we are, heading to the lawyer’s office to sign on our very own apartment.
The lawyers are jolly and jovial and I’m all out of ‘j’ words, but they’re having a great time. Binyamin and I initial and sign and initial and sign, and then they pull out the l’chayims, and everyone’s smiling. This is huge. We are actual homeowners. I’m going to throw up. Oh, I’m actually going to throw up.
“We need to go,” I hiss at my husband. I make it to the restroom. Shaking, we head home.
Several hours later, we sit, stunned. I guess Hashem wanted to let us know that the third bedroom in our new apartment would be put to good use.
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