You’re showing her that her father’s family exists, which is so important for her sense of self, for a healthy upbringing
.
There it was, the gleaming white Tesla, gliding up in front of her house like the driver owned the place. Automatically, Deena’s insides tightened.
But she quickly collected herself. Zev’s father didn’t own the place. Zev had never lived there at all. Deena had bought this apartment, a five-minute walk from her sister Tzippi, with her own money, three months after Zev had died, when Nechama had barely been two years old. She owned the place, and she kept it up.
Had Zev or his parents been around when the laundry room flooded? She had located the main, she had called down a painter to repair the ceiling. She managed emergencies, she maintained the house. Nobody could deny that.
The kids were scuttling through the hallway on skates made from Clics. “It’s time to go, kids.” Deena kept her voice level. “Zeidy is here.”
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