Today, our daughter’s class started studying Elie Wiesel’s NIGHT.
“Oh boy,” was all I could say as I prepared dinner.
“I don’t know why we have to read this now of all times,” she yelled. I knew exactly what she meant.
The first 52 pages are due tomorrow and she read through her meal. After wolfing down a plateful (she's usually a very slow eater), she looked up, swollen-faced, and said, “I’m scared.”
Not religious and the child of two parents who were raised as Catholics (me much, much moreso than Maria), our daughter carries the weight of her two last names: “Rosenblum” and “Katz.”
She’s having a moment. Now I am.
Three more days.
“Oh boy,” was all I could say as I prepared dinner.
“I don’t know why we have to read this now of all times,” she yelled. I knew exactly what she meant.
The first 52 pages are due tomorrow and she read through her meal. After wolfing down a plateful (she's usually a very slow eater), she looked up, swollen-faced, and said, “I’m scared.”
Not religious and the child of two parents who were raised as Catholics (me much, much moreso than Maria), our daughter carries the weight of her two last names: “Rosenblum” and “Katz.”
She’s having a moment. Now I am.
Three more days.
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