Later that week I hear Mother and Father having a long whispered conversation in the kitchen, after which Mother, looking very upset, and Father, looking sheepish, summon me. Father says, “Peter, Herr Schafer has kindly invited you to a Shabbat dinner with him Friday evening, and we’ve agreed that you may go.” “You’ll be on your best behavior, Peter,” Mother says. “It’s very kind of Herr Schafer’s friends to include you.” Mother’s words surprise me. Somehow I expected that she would have forbidden me to go, but what she says next surprises me even more. “I’ve been thinking this last week, Peter, of your mother. I’m becoming accustomed to calling her your mother, for that’s what she surely is. She and I are together in that. It would not be fair to her to let you grow up ignorant of the faith of your grandparents and great-grandparents and who knows how many generations before them. Only remember, Peter, you’re our son as well, for we’ve been your parents every minute and every hour all these years.
