Place for Every Son

As told to Rivka Streicher

The round table is set for six. The girl from Jewessence is here already. We’re just waiting for Michelle.

My kids are up. I didn’t want them to miss the Seder experience, even though at ages two and three they’re going to get cranky soon or hyped from too much grape juice. (And what will Michelle say?)

There’s a knock on the door, and I hold my breath.

My husband, Eli, smiles at her. He dons his kittel, and we start to make Kiddush together. Him in his chassidish Satmar havarah, not looking the part, light years from the Williamsburg he grew up in, though smidgens of it still live inside him.