It was Abba who’d told her to follow her heart. If it was kosher, if this is where she came alive, she should go for it
She is drowning her challah in dressing when she realizes she never really knew him.
Mmm, good, who made this? she thinks, almost says aloud, while one of the uncles is talking — about Opa.
Ellie looks around. No one’s eating. Aunt Shulamis is picking at the corner of her eye. Oma sits at the head of the table, her eyes like dark, endless tunnels. Uncle Gershon on one side, her father on the other. She watches Oma’s expression, empty, faraway, the way it doesn’t change when Uncle Gershon takes his mother’s hand.
She looks at the laden platters of food, Aunt Shulamis’s crockery laid prettily at each place. Some people, Uncle Srul, the cousins, have filled their plates. But they are toying with the food, like it’s the enemy and the cutlery are their weapons.
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