Who am I to my late husband’s family?
The phone rings at 2:47 p.m. on a Tuesday, and I know before I answer that Chani’s getting engaged. I pick up on the third ring to her breathless voice, and I can hear girls squealing in the background.
“Tova! Tova, it’s official!”
I’m holding a spatula covered in lemon curd for the lemon tart I was making for Shabbos. The rich buttery crust sits cooling on the counter behind me. But now the spatula hovers in midair while I do the math: Chani was ten when I got engaged. The one who’d answered the door, gap-toothed and giggling, the first time we entered as a couple. Now she’s 19. Nine years. Heshy’s been gone for seven.
“Tova? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” I say, and my voice comes out normal and warm. “Chani, mazel tov! Tell me everything. Who’s the lucky boy?”
She launches into the details: The boy is from Monsey, learned in the Mir, his father’s a maggid shiur, and she just knew…. I make the right sounds, ask all the right questions. The lemon curd is loosening, dripping from the tip of the spatula.
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