“Nice, isn’t it?” Shua had just come home from the mikveh, his peyos shining with moisture and his eyes with expectation
On Erev Shavuos she found it, wrapped in heart-spangled silver paper, on the tray.
Just before lighting the candles, she slipped her fingers under the folds of the wrapper, tearing a heart or two. She pulled it out: a small, machine-cut, wooden object, a keychain in the shape of a little bottle, painted red and black, lettered in white with the name “Nechami.”
A gift. For Yom Tov.
Bathed and fed, the baby was asleep in his infant seat. Bentzi was sitting on the couch, busy with his bag of potato chips. And for the first time in her life, she’d received a Yom Tov present.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Shua had just come home from the mikveh, his peyos shining with moisture and his eyes with expectation.
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