I know you mean well, but my son is not your project
We’d invited him and Chaya and the kids for Shabbos lunch, and I’d spent the whole morning preparing because my sister-in-law Chaya was the perfect type; magazine-inspired tablescapes and menus that would not be out of place on some influencer’s feed. My brother Avi had a successful business, their standard of living was different than ours, but still, he was my younger brother, we loved having them over. The kids liked it, too — my older ones enjoyed the company, and my little ones played with Avi and Chaya’s two little ones, which kept everyone entertained.
The guests showed up in a flurry of good Shabbos and thanks so much and a platter of fancy miniatures alongside the salad Chaya had offered to bring. Salad, it turned out, meant some exotic leafy greens, candied jerky, mango, and honey-roasted pecans. Yum, but somewhat out of context next to my cholent, schnitzel, deli roll, and wings. Not that Avi and Chaya cared; they were super chilled. And nice — which was the reason Avi even tried to get involved with Shimi’s stuff in the first place.
Everyone was finding their place around the table for Kiddush when Avi said suddenly, “Hey, where’s Shimi?”
The girls gave each other knowing looks and Naftali finished pouring the grape juice before answering, deliberately, “He’ll come when he’s ready.”
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