Chapter 20 Summary: Yaffa and Debbie discover their parents’ will. They’re shocked to learn that their parents plan to bequeath their money to start a tzedakah foundation, rather than leaving it to their children.

Returning from Ari’s, Yaffa let herself into her parents’ house and marched straight to her room. Her room—the bedroom she’d slept in as a girl, that still held the ghosts of slumber parties and all-night study sessions and singing in front of her mirror pretending to be Whitney Houston. Normal, secure, happy childhood.

And now that security had gone poof.

Teeth clenched, she grabbed her suitcase and briskly threw in shirts, pajamas, tichels, toothbrush. She’d sacrificed half her summer helping her parents; it was time to go home. Now.

She zipped the suitcase and hoisted it down the stairs. How would she explain the abrupt departure to her mother? Sudden emergency? No, that would send Mom into a panic. Shmuel needed to go on a business trip? Or maybe tell the truth—that Yaffa felt so deeply betrayed that she couldn’t stay here a moment longer.

She realized she was shaking from pent-up fury. She couldn’t talk to her mother in this state; if she opened her mouth right now, she just might explode. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, counting to 10, 20, 35, until she finally felt calm enough to speak.

“Mom?”

Gail was sitting in the kitchen frowning over the crossword puzzle. The lunch dishes were still piled up in the sink and there was no trace of dinner on the table, even though it was 8:00 at night. Had her mother forgotten to eat?

Gail looked up. “Oh, hi, Yaffa; you’re back. Should we make dinner? It’s a bit late.”

Yaffa’s eyes widened. “Were you waiting for me to eat?” More to the point, had she waited for her to prepare the meal? Had she become so dependent on Yaffa that she was no longer capable of cooking herself?

Gail shrugged. “I don’t mind, I’m happy to wait.” She looked around vaguely. “What do you think we should eat tonight? That grilled chicken you made with the honey balsamic marinade was delicious. I think we have some more cutlets in the freezer; can you check?”

Yaffa tried to remember if her mother had always been this helpless, or if something had changed in the past few weeks since Dad’s heart attack. Either way, she felt a pang of guilt; how could she leave her in this state?

That’s why they need an aide, she thought. And as she remembered all of her attempts to suggest this, which Mom had rebuffed—and all of Yaffa’s concerns about whether they could afford it, reassuring her that of course the children would chip in if necessary—resentment filled her once more.

Pursing her lips, she opened the freezer and took out a pack of chicken cutlets.

“I’ll make you a whole batch of it, so that you’ll have enough for the next few nights,” she said, as she placed the chicken in the microwave to defrost and then turned on the water to wash the dishes. With her back to her mother she said, “I’m going home tonight.”

“Oh! Is everything OK?”

“Yes, yes, everyone’s fine. But I’ve been away for a while, and my kids need me at home.”

Her mother nodded. “Of course, if your kids need you, they come first. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

They come first. She clenched her hand.

“Do you really believe that, Mom?”

“Believe what?”

That kids come first. That you should worry first about your own flesh-and-blood offspring before giving away your money to everyone else in need.

Yaffa squeezed the sponge so hard that soapy water trickled down her arm. How could her parents have done this to them? How?

“Never mind,” she muttered.

***

When Ilana woke up the next morning, she wondered at first if the whole Zoom meeting had been a dream. Mom and Dad willing away their entire fortune to start a tzedakah foundation? It sounded like a fairy tale… except that the happily-ever-after ending wasn’t her own.

“A tzedakah foundation?” Danny stared at her, his cup of morning coffee suspended in air. “That’s… unexpected.”

“Right? It’s like it’s hard to decide which was more shocking—discovering that my parents are multimillionaires or finding out that they’re giving it all away to charity.”

He shook his head. “I never would have pegged them as the type. I mean, it’s not as if they’ve been these big donors all their lives being honored every other Sunday at institutional dinners.” He took a sip of coffee, swallowed slowly, and threw Ilana a look. “How does it make you feel?”

“Well, it’s certainly a beautiful thing they’re doing.” Ilana was trying hard to keep her voice level and mature. Detached, as if she were discussing an interesting news item. “Proud, I guess?”

He was right; they weren’t the big donor types. Back when she was a kid, she remembered her father complaining about the public appeals in shul. “It’s not right, the way they embarrass you into giving,” he’d grumble. What had changed?

Her own coffee cup had left a ring on the table, and she ran her finger around it. Danny was silent, waiting for her to say more. What did he want to hear? That the news had hit her like a punch to the gut? That she was wounded to the core?

“I don’t know, I’m still processing.”

“Makes sense. It’s hard to know yet how this will impact you.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Impact me? But it won’t. That’s the point, right? My parents’ money won’t impact me one bit.” She gave a laugh, as if it were all a joke. But her voice came out shaky, and the lump that immediately rose in her throat made her choke.

She swallowed, blinking rapidly. “Well, I’ll tell you one way this impacts me. My dreams of a fertility organization are now in the garbage.”

Danny cocked his head. “In the garbage? Why?”

“Please. I’m no fundraiser. I was counting on my parents to support it. There goes that dream, huh?” Her mouth twisted. “Of course, I can wait until after they’re dead, and apply to their foundation. If I’m lucky, maybe they’ll approve me for a grant.”

He waved his hand. “I understand why you’re bitter, but don’t be ridiculous. A few days ago, you didn’t even know this money existed, and we were doing just fine. So why should your life change just because money you never knew you had turns out to be money you don’t have?”

Her eyes widened. How could he be so reasonable… and so utterly thickheaded?

“You think this is about money?” Her voice rose. “This isn’t about money! It’s not at all about money!”

His brow furrowed. “So what’s it about?”

Frustrated, she stood up. Her eyes fell on the large family portrait above their living room couch. Ilana, Danny, Matan, Moriah. Her small, beautiful family. And suddenly, all of the hurt she’d been feeling since last night engulfed her in a deep tidal wave. “It’s about the love of a parent!” she cried. “About wanting to give, give, give to your children, to give them everything you have to give, because you love them more than anything!” She would never, ever, have written such a will; every cell in her body would protest doing such a thing to Matan and Moriah.

And so she couldn’t help but wonder…

“If my parents are capable of bequeathing their money to strangers instead of their children—how much do they really love us?”

Ariella Aaron is an internationally published writer with a unique talent for writing stories that are entertaining and thought-provoking, with characters who are eminently relatable. A former resident of Northern New Jersey, Ariella has now transplanted her family to Israel, where she is happily living the dream of raising her brood in our homeland.