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Compliments were like penicillin, Shimshy decided. After a certain point, you developed a resistance and they no longer had an effect. Now, at 1:33 a.m., he listened to an overtired, weepy machateineste, her eyes shining with that special fusion of heartbreak and joy unique to those who’ve just married off a child. “And when you sang about my father, what he did in Auschwitz, I mamesh felt his neshamah down here, at my side,” she gushed.
Dearest Sweet Baby-to-Be, I am bigger than I ever imagined I could be. Full with life, with love, with you. I am waiting, waiting for you to come. You will come early, I know. “This will be our Succos baby, our Succos boy,” I said. Your tatty laughed. “How do you know? What makes you so sure?” “I just know,” I said. “You’re such a woman,” he said. And I just smiled. Because I know. I just know.
This year, Shneur had given his solemn word. “I promise you with all my heart,” he told Nechy, whose face was chiseled from a block of disbelieving, unyielding stone. He bought flowers, washed dishes, intimated a vague promise to give her the kitchen renovation she was coveting. Finally, finally, she had relented.