It was a destination wedding, and Evangeline was an invited guest and close friend of the bride’s father.

Evangeline expected the event to be somewhat melancholy because the bride’s mother had suddenly and unexpectedly died several years earlier.

Upon her arrival at the hotel, Evangeline quickly ascertained that the family of five was in a profoundly ruptured state.

The lobby was her first indication of trouble.

The father was sitting in the far corner with his girlfriend, and Evangeline immediately felt the negative aura in the room.

The four siblings were scattered here and there, marking their separate corners.

The two daughters were as far away from their father as was possible and it was apparent that they were not on speaking terms with his girlfriend.

The eldest son sat in a club chair not far from his dad, his young daughter on his lap, while his wife stood protectively next to them in mama bear mode.

The youngest son/child had no seat, and he moved awkwardly back and forth between his father, brother, and sisters, while the father’s girlfriend intently scrolled through her phone pretending to be busy.

The bride’s mother, gone for almost nine years had been a beautiful but fragile soul, and Evangeline could see that time had not been healing.

At the rehearsal dinner, there were additional signs of unnervingly silent pain and animosity as Evangeline continued to observe and assess the situation.

The youngest brother was clearly loved by all and again drifted from brother to sisters to father.  The oldest brother, his wife, and child were purposefully avoided by the sisters who were attached at the hip. And neither daughter approached their father at all.

Evangeline felt sadness for the eldest who was visibly distressed, and so she made a point of going up to him with the hope of eliciting some information. But they only briefly spoke about insignificant nothings while he occasionally and warily eyed his sisters.

The next day, Evangeline could not fathom why the youngest brother was in the wedding party but not the oldest.

And the child of the oldest brother was in the wedding, but completely ignored by everyone else in the party except the younger brother who went out of his way to mollify her.

After the nuptials, there was the usual eating, drinking, and dancing. But Evangeline was obsessed with the sub plots playing out before her.

The family of five sat at four separate tables and four corners apart: Daughters, father, eldest son, youngest son.

Four heartbreaking scenarios: Daughters. Daughters vs. father/girlfriend. Daughters vs. eldest brother/child/wife.  Youngest brother floating uncomfortably in and out of all three camps. Appeasing and floating from corner to corner. From camp to camp.

Then came the unforgettable finale.

It started with the deejay who switched it up from Motown to Madonna.

Life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone. I hear you call my name. And it feels like home.

Evangeline, who was sitting closest to the eldest brother, witnessed the simultaneous familial eruption.

The eldest brother shot out of his seat while yelling out: “Mom’s song!” as he pulled his wife and child to the dance floor.

When you call my name, it’s like a little prayer. I’m down on my knees, I wanna take you there.

The youngest brother bounded up to the oldest, and the two hugged tightly.

In the midnight hour, I can feel your power. Just like a prayer you know I’ll take you there.

The bride grabbed her sister’s hand, and they ran toward the others.

I hear your voice. It’s like an angel sighing.

Evangeline gaped in shock as they all bounced and danced while bellowing out the words to the song, holding their hands close to their mouths as if they were microphones.

I close my eyes, oh God I think I’m falling.

The dance floor remained solely for them. No one dared to intrude in their powerful moment.

I have no choice, I hear your voice. Feels like flying.

Jumping and gyrating to the music, the youngest of the siblings loosened his tie, while the oldest embraced his sisters, who lovingly embraced him back.

Out of the sky, I close my eyes. Heaven help me.

Many of the guests, including Evangeline, were choking up and quickly wiping away tears lest anyone should see.  The father was visibly moved, and every person in the room sat quietly mesmerized.

Like a child, you whisper softly to me. You’re in control just like a child. Now I’m dancing.

The sisters clutched the hands of the child and the wife. The wife appeared stunned. The child confused. But their expressions quickly changed to delight.

It’s like a dream, no end, and no beginning. You’re here with me, it’s like a dream.

The six of them formed a circle, and while tightly holding hands they moved inward and outward, laughing and singing and smiling. Inward and outward.

Just like a prayer, your voice can take me there. Just like a muse to me, you are a mystery.

The bride put her head on her older brother’s shoulder. Was she weeping? It was hard for Evangeline to say because her own tears made it impossible to see.

Just like a dream, you are not what you seem. Just like a prayer, no choice your voice can take me there.

Then the song ended and the crowd sat silently, visibly overcome by what they had just seen, and waiting for what would come next.

The family circle broke apart and back to their separate corners they all went.

Our house is way too big for the two of us, but we simply don’t have the heart to sell it.

Back in the day, with five bedrooms and four bathrooms, it suited our family of six—three daughters, one son, and me and my husband, very well.

When our children moved out of the familial nest, we anointed each bedroom officially and forever theirs.

When we refer to a bedroom, it is always by their first names. “The lamp in Amy’s room is out.” “The fan in Amelia’s room isn’t working.” “We need a new mattress in Elsa’s room.”

But any mention of Dane’s room is always a painful reminder of the decision our son made to disown us.

There have been sightings of Dane by some of us, here, there, and everywhere. A painful reminder that he is so close, yet so far.

I once spotted him on a train, and it broke my heart to sink down low into my seat for fear he would reject me.

But he made a decision a long time ago to walk away. To try to explain how his decision affected our family would take several chapters from a clinical perspective.

Our loving family unit of six was now painfully and heartbreakingly down to five. Besides me, the remaining four family members have their own personal and painful degrees of hurt. But I can unequivocally assure you that Dane’s decision to leave us in his past was the single most agonizing event of my life.

But I can only speak for myself. The rest of my family have their own tales to tell. Or not.

I realized that Dane was never coming back when he stopped sending me an obligatory text two times a year. To be clear, I waited months upon months for those two texts.

Even though the slightly veiled brusqueness and unsigned texts of “Happy Birthday” and “Happy Mother’s Day,” showing up on another mother’s phone might send them into the depths of despair and depression. But they lifted me up. They made my whole birthday. They completed my Mother’s Day. I felt near to his heart for 2 out of 365 days.

Five words over twelve months painstakingly and slowly turned into 50 words over 120 months. Ten long, mournful years.

And then in the eleventh year, no birthday text. I was devastated but convinced myself Dane simply forgot it was my birthday.

On Mother’s Day, I checked my phone every few minutes, until late into the evening, when I finally gave up. And the reality of the horribly sad situation finally sunk in. It wasn’t possible that he had forgotten about Mother’s Day. Dane’s refusal to send me a Mother’s Day text could only mean one thing: I was no longer his mother in his eyes.

As I write this, the pain sweeps through my entire body, and I find breathing difficult. My beautiful and once-loving son is gone from me.

Back to our house.

We now have four beautiful grandchildren, the oldest is seven; the youngest is one. And several times a year Dane’s siblings and their ever-growing families sleep over for a weekend of chaos, lovefesting, and bonding.

Each of the siblings’ bedrooms has a particular plus: Amy’s room has the crib, Amelia’s room houses all the games, Elsa’s room has a king-size bed and a cotton-top mattress.

And Dane’s room has the most impressive collection of classic children’s movies you can imagine. At least a hundred of new and old, which has been the delight of all of the grandkids since they were born. They all crowd around the movies in Dane’s room, and each one has a favorite.

For years now, every time the grandkids visit, they immediately invade Dane’s room to pick out movies and insisting no matter what time of day or night it is—that we watch together, and I make them popcorn.

On the family weekend sleepovers, the bedrooms are parsed out by their given names. Amy’s room goes to the daughter who needs the crib, and the two other girls fight over which will get the king-size bed. The two youngest grandkids sleep with their parents.

The two older grandkids enjoy the privilege of staying in Dane’s room by themselves, which not only houses the revered collection of movies but also has an enormous pullout couch so that they can curl up, lay back and enjoy a show before going to bed.

And that is how Dane’s room came to be deemed the grandkids’ favorite.

Sometimes after the grandkids have gone to sleep, we all hang around, drink wine and reminisce. Once in a while, one of the siblings will ask: “Why?” “What happened?” And when my tears start to flow they try to reassure me. They try to soften the blow. “He’ll be back.” “He knows we love him.”

On a recent visit, as my seven-year-old grandson helped me put sheets on the pullout couch, he couldn’t stop talking about Dane’s room. He chattered non-stop, revisiting and extolling its virtues.

“Dane’s room has the best movies ever.”

“Dane’s room has a secret door to the best bathroom.”

“Dane’s room has the best television.”

“Dane’s room has all the cool blankets.”

“Dane’s room has so many awesome trophies.”

Every sentence that my loving grandson threw out there was like a stab in my heart.

As my grandson stared at a photo of Dane as a young boy, he quietly asked, “Do you love Dane more than me? Is Dane your favorite?” The look on his innocent face just about broke me down. I tenderly explained that I could never pick a favorite.

I was weary. I’d had enough talk of Dane for one day.

“Come, we’re done here,” I murmured softly as I took his hand to leave Dane’s room.

“Can I ask you one more question?” my grandson queried, as I shut Dane’s door, hoping to also shut down my inner screaming.

“One more,” I answered him, the all too familiar pain sweeping through my body; my breathing quickening, praying that his question wouldn’t send me over the edge.

“Who’s Dane?”

Rummaging through some boxes buried in the corner of a closet yesterday, I found a dossier of my earlier writings. It was a treasure trove of poems, plays, and short stories I had long ago forgotten about. It seems that everywhere I organize these days, files and files of writings of yore keep popping up.

I wrote the short story My Chava back in 1996 after a Hamas suicide bomber blew himself up outside Dizengoff Center in downtown Tel Aviv, killing 13 Israelis and wounding 130 more. In watching an interview with a mother who lost her young daughter, I was haunted by her words, her loss, and her unrecoverable heartbreak.

My Chavah’s favorite holiday was Purim, and she was obsessed with Esther. As I helped to dress her for the Purim celebration, she excitedly told me the story of how Esther became Queen of Persia.

For several years, she had insisted on dressing up as Queen Esther. This year would be no different—except that we were celebrating Purim in Tel Aviv, where a grand celebration and best costume contest was being held. Chavah was determined to look her Esther best and win.

And she certainly looked beautiful that day. Dressed in royal blue satin, she looked every bit the Jewish heroine she portrayed. Her crown of gold glitter sat regally and securely on her long, cascading black hair, despite her vigorously waving the matching scepter in the surrounding air.

While I braided her thick, silky hair, Chavah chattered on in triumphant animation. “Twenty-five years ago in ancient Persia, the King was not happy with his disobedient wife Vashti, so he held a beauty pageant in search of his true love. Esther was chosen, became Queen, and then saved all the Jews of Persia from death. And they called the festival to celebrate the courage of Esther and the safety of the Jewish people Purim!”

Her lovely face was full of excitement as we put the final touches on her hair and makeup. Gazing into her dark eyes, I was filled with an overwhelming feeling of love and warmth.

“We’ll call her Chavah,” I told my husband Ari the day she was born. Meaning “breath of life,” Chavah was the wife of Adam—the first woman on earth. The mother of all living. And I suppose, like any other new mother, I fervently prayed to God for a blessed life for my newborn child.

It was obvious from the beginning that Chavah was uniquely full of vitality and soul, an irrefutable gift from God. She was nurturing, kind, sensitive, motherly, otherworldly, and wise beyond her years. And it wasn’t just my opinion. Our entire family reveled in the blessing that was Chavah.

As she twirled around in her full-skirted gown, my mind wandered to the day when Itzhak, our handyman, was working in our house, repairing a bookshelf. It toppled over, and the shelf and books came crashing down on him. “Chavah came running into the room to help me up,” Itzhak reminisced. “That’s when she noticed my arm.”

Itzhak had spent many years in a Jewish ghetto and three years in a concentration camp as a young boy. His identifying numbers had been burned into his arm—a lifelong reminder that he was a victim, a survivor, and a Jew. “She touched my forearm with such tenderness, tracing the numbers with her little fingers. When I looked up at her, tears welled in her eyes as she softly said: “Blessed is the match.” “I looked at her shocked, for her words were the first few of a poem that I could never forget.”

Itzhak explained to me that the poem was written during the Nazi occupation of Europe by the Jewish freedom fighter Hanna Senesch. Hanna was a 23-year-old woman tortured and then murdered by the Nazis for rescuing Hungarian Jews. According to Itzhak, Hanna’s poetry was revered and loved throughout Israel, a reminder of the struggle to liberate the Jewish people and build a Jewish state. I had no idea that Chavah knew of Hana Senesch, let alone her poetry.

“She recited it word for word,” Itzhak told me incredulously and repeated it to me as he had heard it from her.

Blessed is the match consumed in the kindling flame.
Blessed is the flame that burns in the heart’s secret places.
Blessed is the heart with strength to stop its beating for honor’s sake.
Blessed is the match consumed in the kindling flame.

Ari’s love for Israel and his desire to emigrate increased with Chavah’s birth. We spent every summer there, each trip richer in experience than the one before. A magnificent country of lush green, built on dunes of desert and sand. The dream of a homeland, concentrated in a space the size of New Jersey, its national anthem sadly titled “Hatikvah,” The Hope.

While I cherished our summers in Israel, I felt ambivalent about moving there. My friends and family were all in New York, and making new acquaintances was never my forte. I also worried about Chavah—and what would be best for her. In usual Chavah fashion, she wanted what I wanted, even though her choice would have been to move to Israel.

Israel was in her heart and in her blood. She appreciated everything about it. The stone mosaic promenade stretching along the Mediterranean Sea in Tel Aviv, the Judean Desert, and the Tower of David in the Old City of Jerusalem were but a few of her revered places.

I will never forget the summer we climbed Masada, the mountaintop fortress made of desert rock more than 1,600 feet high where Jews became martyrs. The three of us climbed it with intense determination. I recalled thinking back then that, as a child of only nine years, Chavah had incredible endurance and stamina. In the brutal heat of August, we watched the sun seemingly rise directly out of the Dead Sea. The fiery orange ball lit the dark sky over an eerie sea of nothing. The Dead Sea was the brightest green I had ever seen—so majestically beautiful yet so devoid of life.

I found Chavah high among the clouds, in the ancient ruins of the Masada Temple, on her knees, eyes closed, her face tilted up toward the sun’s scorching rays. A hazy light enveloped her, creating an ethereal halo all around her. She prayed so diligently, so wholeheartedly. Never one for prayer, I knew at that moment that she was exceptional. The thought crossed my mind that Chavah and God had formed an everlasting and exceptional bond that might possibly be stronger than any bond we as her family would ever have with her.

In the end, Ari’s desire to emigrate was stronger than my fear of leaving friends and family. So we left Flatbush for Israel, making a permanent home in Tel Aviv. Our apartment overlooked the Mediterranean Sea that my Chavah loved so dearly, and we quickly assimilated into life in the ancient and glorious land.

It was a perfect day for the Purim festival. The sun was shining brightly, the weather warm and pleasant. The square was brimming with young children dressed in brightly colored costumes. The crowd was singing and dancing in celebration of the festival. The stores were bustling with people, and the streets were filled with joy and laughter.

“Ima, Ima, look here,” Chavah gleefully shouted to me from across the square. I gazed at her lovingly and smiled as I waved, full of immense pride and pleasure.

And then my eyes moved a mere foot away from her to a young man in his early twenties. My eyes locked on his. In that split second, I knew why he was there. As if looking down at the scene from above and in excruciatingly slow motion, I howled Chavah’s name. My voice sounded dull and guttural, like a phonograph record being played at the wrong speed.

As I began to sprint toward Chavah, he pressed something in his hand, and I knew life would never be the same for us again. “NOOOOOO,” I roared helplessly, the same sluggish, growling tone spewing from my mouth.

Then he imploded, bits and pieces of flesh and metal hurtling everywhere. Something solid and sharp blew into my chest, and blood spurted from me.  I felt nothing—until I saw my beloved Chavah, one leg missing, her crown and matching scepter next to where her head should have been. Ravaged by pain—piercing, excruciating, unbearable pain, I heard a woman screaming. The wailing was horrific and heartbreaking. In my disordered state, the thought kept crashing through my tortured mind that it was impossible someone could feel more pain than me.

As I cradled the shattered, dismembered body of my beloved Chavah, it was then that I realized the screaming was mine.

NOTE: On March 4, 1996, on the eve of Purim, Hamas murdered 13 Israelis, children, and adults and wounded 130 in a terrorist attack in Tel Aviv. The attack was the fourth suicide bombing in Israel in nine days, bringing the death toll during that span to over 60. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KwkNTvxs9Lw