She can almost hear Rivky’s voice in her head. You’re making excuses. Like it or not, Chana has to extend some tough love now
The fettuccine alfredo is set down in front of Chana, creamy-white, its mouthwatering scent wafting through the air. Chana is about to take a bite when there’s a long, protracted cry from upstairs, a bellowing, “Mommy!” that is unmistakably Ari.
Chana looks mournfully at her fettuccine. “Would I be a terrible mother if I ignored him for five minutes and ate this plate of pasta?”
Naftali laughs from his spot beside the stove. They’ve taken to eating a late meal after he gets home, just the two of them, with an occasional teenage daughter. Naftali’s always been the gourmet chef — Chana had served the kids fish sticks and mashed potatoes that night — but he’s usually too busy now to cook. Today had been a special treat, and it’s about to get cold.
“I’ll take care of Ari,” Naftali offers. “You enjoy.” He twirls a fork in the fettuccine, takes a bite straight from the saucepan, and heads upstairs.
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