“B-b-but,” I sputtered, “how could we give them a shtar mechilah if they never even said I’m sorry? How do you forgive someone who never asked for forgiveness?”
Iwas sitting at the kitchen table at 10 p.m., working out the seating arrangements for my son Shaya’s wedding the following night, when my cell phone rang.
“Ma.”
It was Shaya, who had left the house a few minutes earlier to bring his stuff to the apartment where he and his kallah, Rivky Kaufman, would be staying during sheva brachos.
“Ma, are you sitting?”
“Sure I’m sitting, Shayale, I’m doing the tables. You have no idea how complicated this is. I can’t seat Tante Frimchu next to Aunt Judy, because they don’t get along, but I also can’t seat her with Tatty’s side of the family … I’m telling you, I don’t have the head for this now.”
“Well,” Shaya said, his voice wavering a little, “you might as well stop now. The wedding is off.”
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