“Wednesday,” Naftali echoes, suddenly exhausted. “You’re picking out a sheitel for Wednesday? It’s Monday”
It’s just after six in the morning when Naftali gets home from shul. At this hour, the house is unnaturally silent, the chatter of daughters replaced with the silence of slumber. He grabs his coffee and breakfast, and slips out before he wakes anyone.
But today, when he pushes the front door open, Chana is framed in the hallway, wide awake, and holding a brush in her hand.
He nearly jumps. “Chana! Is everything okay? Are the kids all right?”
“Do you think I look more professional in my sheitel or my fall?” she demands, and Naftali blinks at her, lost for a response.
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