My long-suffering husband looks at me. “Rachelli. We are not putting our child in the bathtub, okay? He or she will sleep in our room until we have a better arrangement.”
I have a sudden vision of a faceless twelve-year-old camped out on the floor of our room. I shudder.
“Yehudah, we need a bigger place.”
He shrugs, and dons his hat, Minchah-bound. “Oh, I know.”
Of course he knows — I mention it in passing once or twice a day. Poor man, it’s like being married to a robocall. Just the same words on repeat. I like to think that when I’m not in my eighth month, I’m a lot more easygoing. But right now, the stress is getting to me.
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