Category: Grace and Kindness

Happy Endings

September 30, 2025

Grace and Kindness

Sometimes, I will blog often. Though each entry takes me hours because I need for it to be perfect, I will occasionally tackle the challenge more than once a week if I’m in crisis or if I really need to say something. Today, both are true.

I just finished watching the television show, Mad Men. It first came out in 2007, and it was the stunning Jon Hamm’s breakout role. He was an advertising executive, and the show’s 7 seasons plunge you into the hedonistic, overindulgent, and, quite frankly, unrestrained world of advertising in the 60s. Excessive smoking, drinking, infidelity, and backstabbing (which, coincidentally, is probably also what Jay told the kids is the name of my autobiography), were all over every episode, and I won’t even begin to touch on how the show embodied the message that women should make dinner, look pretty, schedule appointments, and rarely think.

I have to say that this show was riveting. Dark yet funny, aggravating yet auspicious, realistic yet unlikely, and sexy yet repugnant, all 92 episodes, at some point, left me feeling sad, envious, unfulfilled, energized, defeated, frightened, stirred, galvanized, hopeful. The writers and the actors certainly did their jobs effectively, as one can argue for days about who, in fact, realized and reached their happy ending.

What, actually, is a happy ending? Once upon a time, it was the name of an ice cream sundae that one could get at Friendly’s. It was small, but it did the job of topping off that Fishamajig or SuperMelt with something yummy. A happy ending is also what some people get at the end of a massage, where the masseuse brings you to orgasm after putting you in a relaxed state of bliss. (Did you think every blog would be PG)? A happy ending is what we’re used to and hoping to read about in fairy tales, especially since the heroine has usually gone through the tortures of the damned before she can even think about her happy ending.

My happy ending will have the 3 who matter most, their spouses, and my grandchildren (who probably won’t be babies anymore). I, woefully, will have missed out on the “I’m pregnant!” announcements, the pregnancies, the births, the “What do I do, Mom?” and the “Did this happen to you, Mom?” The delicious scent of a newborn mixed with the intoxicating combination of Dreft, Desitin, and Johnson and Johnson Baby Shampoo will have to be a memory I pull from storage, when the 3 who matter most were small. I won’t get to play my famous “Oh, I Don’t Think So” game that elicits such giggles and squeals of joy, and the indentations on the chubby little wrists and ankles will probably have filled in.

Maybe, however, if I’m lucky, I’ll still get to give my renowned foot rides, attend sporting events, dance recitals, and school plays, cook my medicinal and traditional matzo ball soup, and embrace my religion again. Just as my 6th grade students share their weekend plans during our five-minute, end of the week, “Gibbering with Jaffe” sessions, perhaps my grandkids will tell their teacher that they’re having a sleepover at Grandma’s or that Grandma is picking them up from school to go to a Sabrina Carpenter concert. And maybe, just maybe, that Grandma will be me.

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September 23rd, 2025 -(5786)

September 24, 2025

Grace and Kindness

Today is Rosh Hashanah, the beginning of the Jewish New Year. The day marks the creation of Adam and Eve, the birthday of the universe, and a time where Jewish people, like me, reflect on the past year while simultaneously planning for the next one. We dwell on our mistakes and overstay our visit at the Hotel of Regrets and What Ifs. Many spend the day in synagogue, and some, again like me, spend the day in their own heads.

Today is also the anniversary of the day I met Jay. 42 years ago today, while I was walking to a party and Jay was in the Student Union, a mutual friend introduced us. An obvious imbalance from the genesis of our relationship, I suppose Jay’s candle of common sense and calm and my flame of fire and fun thought we just might be a match and possibly make a glow of it (see what I did there).

Jay was far more religious than I, and I think that religion was the ultimate decimator of our marriage. I resented how it was shoved down my throat instead of spoon-fed to me in appropriate portions. Always proud of my religion and glad and eager to be an active participant, I didn’t understand why I had to sell my soul for my kids to go to public school. I didn’t understand why the girls, even at the ages of 6 and 8, couldn’t wear a skirt or a dress even half of an inch above their knees. I didn’t understand why, when we were out of the house, we couldn’t eat what we wanted. But, most of all, I didn’t understand how somebody could pretend to wrap himself in the poncho of piety, when he was actually waiting in the pews to pounce and destroy.

Rabbinical sermons this holiday will, without a doubt, discuss the situation in Israel and Gaza. Israel will be the focus, along with the need for us to continue to put them at the forefront of our concerns for our heritage. I am grateful for my heritage, but, let me be clear in that, first and foremost, I am an American Jew.

On October 7th of 2023, Israel was attacked by Hamas, and they are still waiting for hostages to be returned. These young, beautiful, innocent people were merely enjoying a concert, and the revolting and monstrous murders and kidnappings were beyond the pale. Israel (finally) had the sympathy of the world, and the world saw the persecution right up close. Through the horrors came support we didn’t even know we had.

Now, Netanyahu, as he tries to stay out of jail, is annihilating Gaza. The starvation and the obliteration are NOT who we are, and we’re sadly losing the sympathy and the camaraderie that was almost groundbreaking. Hamas needs to be demolished, but we have got to get this fire under control.

The state of our country here is dire. Jimmy Kimmel being pulled off the air last Wednesday was nothing short of evil, egregious, and retaliatory. What happened to Charlie Kirk was devastating, repulsive, and sickening, and Jimmy Kimmel, like every normal human being, made that clear up front.

Charlie Kirk’s widow said that she forgives the person who shot and killed her husband. That’s an enormous gesture, and, though I’m not a scholar of Jesus by any means, I know that forgiveness was what he so often preached.

Folks, as the Jewish people usher in the New Year, 5786, let’s all show grace and love towards each other. No matter our religion, our political affiliation, our demons, our education, or even our stock portfolios, let’s pull each other up with tenderness and appreciation. As somebody who has lost everything and would relish some forgiveness herself, I know what it means to be beaten up. I know the lacerating pain of not having the 3 who matter most on Mother’s Day and birthdays and holidays, but I never let that stop me from treating others with empathy and compassion.

Shana Tova to all!

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Setbacks and Voices

August 1, 2025

amartinitoast.com, Barbara Starsky, Can I be your grandma?, Cunard, Flakowitz, Grace and Kindness, Marissa, Rebecca, Zachary

We all have different ways of dealing with stress. Some people go to the gym and treadmill their trauma. Many will scream and confront, while a fair portion might retreat. Some eat too much or too little, while others befriend a Bellini and a blackjack table. For me, I write. It doesn’t happen immediately, as I need to internalize everything first, making sure I’ve completely and adequately tortured myself in the process.

This summer began with an enchanted and elegant Alaskan voyage on the Queen Elizabeth, guaranteeing Cunard a customer for life. Proudly taking on the role of the “youngest old person” and relinquishing my role as the “oldest young person,” I basked in the magic of every glacier, every fjord, every whale, every afternoon tea, and every British accent.

We returned home in time for Bob’s birthday, and 2 of his grandsons came to celebrate. Oh, did we have fun! From the slides to the toys to the books to the rocks to the Oh, I Don’t Think So chasing game that I used to play with my own kids, this chasm inside of me was temporarily cushioned, insulated, sequestered. And, taking everybody to our favorite restaurant, Aldo’s, brought even further joy as people there unknowingly addressed me as Grandma and commented on the state of delight and pure bliss into which these children clearly escorted me.

When the kids left, and before I headed back to my house, Bob looked at me and just said, “tragic.” Though I was pretty sure I knew what he meant, I still asked for clarification and elaboration. He said that he knows how much I suffer without my kids and grandkids, and he knows that it’s tragic that I don’t have them in my life. “But,” he said, “what’s the most tragic is that your grandchildren don’t have you in their lives. They’re the innocent ones here, and they are missing out on a grandmother who is so young, so fun, so caring, so vibrant, and so big-hearted.”

The rest of July has been difficult, and the majesty of the Queen Elizabeth and Alaska seems like so very far away. Though I won’t elaborate too much here, I seem to have had a setback in my voice. It’s not my Fran Drescher or my Marvelous Mrs. Nasal physical voice that has been impacted, but my “you can’t talk to me or treat me that way” voice that has taken a hit.

I have worked so hard on loving and respecting myself. With the help of my therapist, my job, relationships, and loyal friends who are truly the sisters I never had (and I do have a sister), I have learned that I have value. I am flawed, damaged, broken, and incomplete, but I have value.

We were recently in Florida, (yes, we went from the invigorating chill of Alaska to the damaging heat of Florida), and the last day of our trip brought us to where my mother had lived and a couple of her old stomping grounds. Both of us were agitated, the feeling having nothing at all to do with each other, and when we walked into my mother’s beloved Flakowitz of Boynton, positively starving, I wasn’t fully surprised when I couldn’t stop crying.

My mother’s house was next, and sneaking in the side gate of Platina felt both illicit and wonderful at the same time. I showed Bob the outside of 5139C Europa Drive; knocking on the door seemed wrong and intrusive. I was feeling so paradoxical, as the nostalgia and reminiscences of the idyllic time I spent there with my kids was darkened by the reality that I never got to say goodbye to my mother. It still eats away at me, and I don’t wish this feeling on anybody, especially the three who matter most.

The Seminole Casino at Coconut Creek was our next stop; my mom loved that place and I wanted to show it to Bob. We had a drink at the bar and were heading to play a little, when all of a sudden I heard a man telling a story to somebody. The words, “and that Jew,” stunned and halted me, and I questioned him on what he just said. He admitted to saying it, and when I told him that I was Jewish and incredibly offended by his label, he could’t stop apologizing. It had been a difficult week where I stifled my voice and swallowed my self-worth, and now this vignette of anti-semitism just had me shaken to my core.

Folks, don’t ever let anybody rip out your proverbial vocal cords. Speak up for your neighbors and for all of the communities that are being persecuted. Speak up for yourselves. We are living in such challenging times, and our voices are not only being edited, but actually deleted.

I’ve got to go find a Bellini and a blackjack table. Happy August to all!

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10 Years

April 3, 2025

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, amartinitoast.com, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Grace and Kindness, Healing, Marissa, Rebecca, Zachary, Parental Alienation, Tragic Divorce, Zachary Jaffe

Ten years ago today, my life ended. How then, you’re probably asking, can I be writing this blog? Fortitude? Resolve? Resilience? Self-torture?

I still play his voicemail from the night before he left me; many of you have even heard it. So chipper and stoked, he shared that he got the internship at ADP, the one for which he so desperately hoped. Mentioning that he was going to surprise me with the news when he saw me, he just couldn’t hold back the well-deserved announcement. I’m glad he didn’t hold back, as his delivery was so ebullient and precious. I can actually say every word of it in my sleep, but that’s what happens when you listen to something every day for 10 years. That’s actually 3,650 times, and, while I know it’s unhealthy for me, it’s all I have.

He was going to his dad’s for the first night of Passover, and he was supposed to come to me for the second night. He never showed.

Zack and I were always so close. The quintessential mama’s boy, he was so easygoing and warmhearted. His compassion and altruism were apparent from such a young age, and I remember going to see The Iron Giant with him when he was only 5. He cried and cried, and Jay turned to me and told me that I was turning Zack into a sissy, a wuss, a girl. It was only the first of dozens of times Jay would tell me that, but I could never equate humaneness with a lack of machismo. In fact, I’m not sure anything enhances the Y chromosome more than tenderness.

I miss my children so much. My mother used to say, once my sister and I gave her grandchildren, that we kind of took a backseat to them. I learned that firsthand from her, as I was so easily scrapped, dumped, discarded, and junked. For me, however, and keep in mind that I’ve never met my grandchildren, it is my kids whose backs I will always have, even now. Even now, as I want to post the voicemail that Zack left me 10 years ago, and I want to post the last birthday card he gave me, I won’t.

A dear friend of mine recently tried to find Zack for me, and she left a letter for him inside of his mailbox. Her beautiful husband had actually written the letter, chronicling his somewhat rocky relationship with his own parents and the pivotal and profound reconciliation that followed. Regretting the time he lost, he was grateful for all that he found. He left his phone number in the letter, with fingers crossed that Zack might reach out.

My friend never imagined she would get such a toxic and threatening phone call from an enraged and boorish woman. This woman had clearly read the letter, but said she had no idea who Zack was (her bestial tone begged otherwise). She told my friend to never show her face anywhere near there again, and my friend was shaking. Believe me, this friend is no Sensitive Susie; she is a tour de force and a force of nature and she does not cower easily. She was rattled.

I don’t know who this person was, but I know who my son isn’t. Maybe, as my mother said, Zack is brainwashed, but I pray that he is not surrounding himself with such uncouth people. I pray he is living his best life, being true to his benevolent soul, smiling when he thinks of all of the concerts we saw and all of our inside jokes, and getting ready to settle down and have his own family.

Zachary Daniel Jaffe, I love you and I miss you. Know that you will always be my Iron Giant, and may your gracious soul find its way back to me one day.

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Who I Am

January 16, 2025

Grace and Kindness

And they’re off …

My Art of Writing kids have just listened to Who I Am, by Jessica Andrews (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jd9zYKLepCw), and I’ve asked them to tell me who they are. They’re all over this assignment, and, crazy though it is, at 13 and 14, many of them know exactly who they are. I’m envious, and I’m enormously impressed.

Though they know much of who I am, they won’t know everything until they’re savvy enough or old enough to find and read this blog. They won’t know that the weight I carry is not just in this well upholstered belly, but also in this demolished heart.

I have kids in front of me who have lost parents, one from illness and two by suicide. There is a child for whom I have bought clothing. Two have recently come out as gay, and two go by different names than the names given to them by their parents. Athletes, scholars, thespians, and artists, they are bewitching.

My Gifted and Talented kids are on the S.S. ExPO Elite, appropriating the role of a famous person of their choosing. Dwayne Johnson, Benjamin Franklin, Nikola Tesla, Steve Harvey, Michael Jackson, and Michelle Obama are only 6 of the 30 folks competing to be the last person remaining on the boat, and they are fierce. They must thwart their shipmates’ attacks on their accomplishments and their character, eventually resting on their own laurels.

May these kids always be able to choose who they are and who they want to be. May they feel safe enough to explore, probe, and investigate the outside world and their inner identities. May they know that they are valued, and to that student of mine who lost her mom back in July, I see you and I know it’s your birthday today. I hope you enjoy your cupcake and gift, and don’t forget that you are strong, you are loved, and you are admired by so many.

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Leap Years and Apologies Without Caveats

December 6, 2024

Apologies Without Caveats, Barbara Starsky, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Grace and Kindness, Healing

My mother used to say that she hated leap years, and they really made her panic. In fact, as the ball dropped to usher in 1988, her spirits did, too. Though sometimes a drama queen, she did have an uncanny sense of knowing when the stars weren’t aligned or something wasn’t kosher.

On January 8, just 8 days after that damn ball dropped, my Grandma Mollie died. She was 88, and she had lived a full, albeit difficult, life. She had five children, 10 grandchildren, a dozen of what would be 18 great grandchildren, no money, and a husband who was ill and died young. Even more remarkable, however, was that this uneducated little woman from Poland, who worked in a factory and who wore support hose before they were cool, was more insightful than those with multiple degrees.

If I’m honest, I’ll tell you that it was my Grandma Marian, my mom’s mom, who was my favorite. She and my grandpa were more fun, but they were younger, they were a couple, and they had the means to spoil us. We were also their only grandchildren.

In the wee hours of the morning on February 28th, only 7 weeks after Grandma Mollie died, Grandma Marian dropped dead of a heart attack. She was 72, and nobody expected it. Oh, sure she had been to handfuls of doctors in the months prior because she wasn’t feeling well, one of whom even told her that she was a ticking time bomb. Oh, sure her face was downright ashen and her tests came back indicative of heart disease, but, no joke, her energy, her sense of humor, and her willingness to love and forgive everybody had us all drinking the denial flavored Kool-Aid that she and my grandfather were knocking back.

2024 has been a pretty woeful and wretched leap year, especially these last few months. With the car accident, the insurance debacle, the stolen purse, and last week’s vertigo episode, I’m counting the seconds until 2025. Sure, there have been sprinkles of tinsel and dashes of glitter, and good fortune has come in the form of passport stamps, student smiles, and hugs for and from many whom I love and who have needed me as I’ve needed them. I’ve even somehow mustered up the courage to see pictures of my children and all of their sweethearts. I didn’t think my fractured heart could handle it, but, oddly enough, seeing them healthy and happy was reassuring and reposeful. I am their mother, after all, and nothing will ever change that.

As this year comes to an end, may we all hold onto hope. May we take a step back and not have to be in the center. May we apologize without caveats, and may we understand, appreciate, and thank G-d that we don’t know and so often can’t relate to what another person is going through. Believe me, the person going through it wishes she wasn’t going through it, either.

Wishing you all grace, love, and light in the coming NON-LEAP year.

Marla

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Wake Me Up When September Ends

September 30, 2024

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, amartinitoast.com, Grace and Kindness

I am sitting in my classroom with my 8th grade Art of Writing dolls, and their prompt is to share about a time when they felt vulnerable. This prompt does not come from nowhere, as I just finished explaining to them about how vulnerable I was left at 2:45 this past Saturday. I was robbed at the blackjack table in Atlantic City, when somebody literally stole my purse right from under my feet.

We were at such a lovely table, with a dealer who couldn’t lose. His “joie de vivre” kept all of us there, even as he was turning his 15s into 21s so seamlessly. The other folks at the table were gracious and friendly folks who, like us, enjoyed every part of the game, even and perhaps especially the social aspect of it.

My purse was on the floor, with my feet planted firmly on it. Yes, I turned around to get my glass of champagne from the waitress, but, to my knowledge, my feet were still on my bag. All of a sudden, I realized that the bag wasn’t there, and everything stopped as I ran to security. Nobody at the table had seen a thing, including the dealer and the pit boss, but it didn’t take long for the cameras to show the man who grabbed my bag so quickly and boorishly. He apparently ran to the back of the casino and pulled out my treasure trove of a wallet, taking the entire wallet and my bottle of medication.

My wallet, which was a Louis Vuitton wallet, had everything in it. Six credit cards, 2 bank cards, my driver’s license, and, probably worst of all, my social security card. Oh, let’s not forget the two blank checks. Security was helpful in quickly locking all of the credit cards, as the thief did not steal my phone. The police came and took all of the information, and there I stood, feeling so weak and violated.

Two weeks ago, it was the car accident that wrought such havoc for me. Then, the whole ordeal with BMW and the insurance company took over as the situation commandeering my palpitations. And, as I shared my story with my munchkins today, at least five said, “Why do bad things keep happening to you? You’re the nicest person.” What these kids don’t know, however, is that I’ve had far more than a purse stolen right from under my feet, so this, too, shall pass. And, my identity was taken a decade ago when everything that mattered the most to me was appropriated.

Stay safe, friends.

MJ

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J.D. Vance

August 12, 2024

Abandonment, Grace and Kindness, Healing, marissasurgery.wordpress.com, Tragic Divorce, Ulcerative Colitis

When Donald Trump chose J.D. Vance to be his running mate, I was frightened. The only thing more scary than a madman making draconic and ferocious threats is having somebody by his side to carry those threats out. What is it called when the devil makes a deal with the devil?

J.D. Vance made some very unkind, untrue, and ungracious remarks about women who don’t have children. He called them cat ladies, purporting that their goal was to make everybody else miserable. For those out there who don’t have children, I apologize on his behalf. And, I apologize to ALL of you, unlike his wife, who said that he only meant it about those who actively made the choice not to procreate. Truth be told, I could almost hear him and Trump hurling classless insults and appearance jabs at women who never married. “Who would marry or tap into that? Who would want to make a kid with that?”

I have 3 children, but they don’t speak to me. Am I childless in J.D. Vance’s eyes? What about the moms who face tragedy far worse than mine and have to bury children? Are they childless in J.D. Vance’s eyes? Is the mom who delivers a stillborn childless? What about the woman who selflessly gives her baby up for adoption? Is she childless? What about the surrogate who so munificently agrees to carry a couple’s child because they can’t conceive on their own? Oh, wait, that wouldn’t even be an option if Mr. Trump and Mr. Vance were elected.

My oldest, Marissa, went through hell and back with such advanced Ulcerative Colitis, eventually losing her colon. All of the details are here – www.marissasurgery.wordpress.com. It was such a real and tangible possibility that having children for her would be nearly impossible, but, with the help of IVF, she is now a mom to two beautiful daughters. I’ve never seen them, not even a picture, but I know that they’re beautiful. I know that they’re beautiful because their mom is positively gorgeous.

Mr. Vance, just stop. Stop with the toxic vitriol. Stop with the name calling. Stop with the unsupported speculations. Whatever the reason for a woman not having children in her life, she is hurting. And, it hurts enough without you augmenting, exacerbating, and compounding the pain.

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Vera Bradley Bag

July 29, 2024

Grace and Kindness

Dear Emma and Gorgeous Girl,

Before I begin, I must explain why I am not referring to you, Emma’s beautiful sister, by name. I don’t know your name, baby, so please forgive me.

Girls, tucked into a special box that I have for you, is my purple Vera Bradley bag, all washed and folded. I only recently retired it, and I’d like to tell you about it. The Language Arts teacher in me wants to tell you that it symbolizes incomparable strength, warrior spirit, and irreplicable grace (but not mine).

By the time you can read this and fully understand it, I’m sure you will know about your mom’s surgeries. You’ll have heard it from her, and, when it’s time, you can read about it on the blog that I wrote throughout her heroic journey. It’s important that you know how much she went through, how courageous and valiant she has always been, and how her body both endured torture AND created miracles.

Your mom had her own Vera Bradley bag that was all-too-often packed for her hospital stays. What should have only been a bag for fun overnights with friends or with your dad turned into luggage for surgeries, blockages, and never knowing what was ahead. From high school to college to P.A. school, that bag traveled to St. Barnabas, Morristown, and, most often, Mount Sinai.

Not too long after your mom’s first hospital stay, I got my own Vera Bradley bag. Sadly, I needed my own hospital bag, so I thought, “Why not ‘sort of’ match Roo’s bag?” Easy to carry and colorful and festive, those bags got way too much use.

Girls, you are marvels in so many ways, including that your mom was able to carry you and bring you safely into the world. She and your dad were able to create you through love, through hope, through faith (your mom’s middle name, which I had no idea would serve her so well), and through science. Part of the wonder of this world is that there are methods and processes where a woman can experience pregnancy and experience her yearnings become reality. May it remain that way, for the both of you, for your cousins, and for every woman who deserves her choice and her voice.

So, sweet girls, what seems like just a two decades old, slightly faded, and somewhat worn-out duffle is really so much more. It’s proof that when resilience, sturdiness, and hardiness meet fragility, magic happens.

I love you both so very much,

Grandma

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The Lottery

March 27, 2024

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, Barbara Starsky, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Grace and Kindness, Healing, marissasurgery.wordpress.com, Parental Alienation, Tragic Divorce

The Powerball and the Mega Millions, as of last night, were collectively worth over 2 billion dollars. Chances of winning one of these jackpots were 1 in 300 million, but somebody did win. Somebody in New Jersey actually won, but people haven’t even checked their tickets yet and nobody even knows where the ticket was sold. Could it have been me?

The odds of what happened to me, in terms of losing my kids, were greater than 1 in 300 million. People are convicted of murder, corruption, extortion, drug dealing, sex trafficking, embezzlement, robbery, and many other heinous crimes, yet their kids still talk to them. I didn’t do any of those things (though Jay probably told them I multitasked and did every one of them on a weekly basis), and I have been given a lifelong sentence of suffering and agony that mutilates and incapacitates my entire stamp.

My mother abandoned me when all of the vicissitude began, so afraid of being jettisoned herself. But, one of the last things she said to me was, “Any other family … If it was any other family, this would never have happened.” Though seemingly ambiguous, I somewhat understood what she was saying. My sister threatened her, controlled her, scared her, and basically ordered my mother to have nothing to do with me. The once powerful and independent Barbara Starsky became a pathetic pawn on my sister’s toxic and monochromatic black chessboard.

My mother had also twice mentioned, “Even a criminal would have been pardoned by now.” She knew how deeply I was hurting, and I don’t think she ever fully understood (who can?) why I was eliminated from the hearts of the kids I loved and still love so completely. She was a coward, and, whether her hand was forced or not, she did make a choice – Sophie’s Choice.

After Zack left me so suddenly, my mom reached out to him. Always the softest of my 3, his behavior puzzled her the most. Aware that Jay’s attorney had told my attorney that my divorce wasn’t progressing because Zack still talked to me, and recognizing that Jay’s lawyer confidently and contemptuously added, “But it won’t be for too much longer,” my mother did, supposedly, reach out to Zack. And, after he did abruptly discard me and she did call him, her words to me were, “I swear to G-d, he has been brainwashed.” (I would sit for a polygraph to attest to the validity of this conversation and the words that still permeate and pierce my vandalized heart).

What will they tell my grandchildren? Will they say I’m dead (easily disproven, thank G-d). Will they say I’m crazy and that I’m away in some sort of facility (easily disproven, thank G-d). Will they say I’m in prison (I guess I am in some sort of proverbial prison).

What won’t they tell my grandchildren? They probably won’t tell them that I’m a respected and beloved teacher. They probably won’t tell them that I am funny, kind, benevolent, charitable, concerned, and so deeply passionate and compassionate. They probably won’t tell them that, when they were growing up, my talons would automatically sharpen if anybody or anything ever hurt them. They probably won’t tell them that, when they were sick, I was always there, never letting them be alone and scared. They probably won’t tell them that I called them my heart, my soul, and my lungs. They probably won’t tell them that I loved them so much that I stayed in a marriage that didn’t make me happy. And, they probably won’t tell them that I loved them more than I loved myself. I still do.

May we all win the lottery, whatever the lottery looks like to us. Whether it’s the Powerball, the Mega Millions, or our children and grandchildren’s presence in our lives, may that winning ticket be in our reach.

Marla

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