“Zeide Shaul was such a tzaddik.”
Smile, just smile, I told myself. You don’t have to say anything.
I smiled. Not warmly, just politely, the kind of smile that was sweet and friendly, but not a sign of agreement.
“Avrumi, you remember Zeide, right?” his mother asked. “How old were you when he was niftar?”
I turned to look at my husband, wincing as pain reeled through my head. I shouldn’t have gotten an epidural. I’d never gotten one before, and I silently vowed never to get one again.
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