One plus one doesn’t always equal two
We slip into a taxi, glowing newlyweds. As he drives off, the taxi driver turns a swarthy face in our direction. We live in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood, filled with large families.
“Where’s the best place to buy a stroller?” he inquires, sure we’re the perfect address. His math is simple: Frum husband + wife = children. We laugh sheepishly. Our wedding was just five days prior. We’re soon involved in a heated debate — Bugaboo versus Doona.
But one plus one doesn’t always equal two.
I’m widowed suddenly. I move back into my parents’ house, waiting for the storm to pass. One week, I’m doing the Shabbos shopping with my mother. One snood, and then another. Our features are similar, so we’re clearly mother and daughter. We look like a typical pair, a generous mother giving her married daughter a lift to the store.
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