The house echoed with emptiness in a way Rivka hadn't known was possible. She stood in the kitchen, her hand resting absently on the worn oak table where, once, her daughters had scattered crayons and half-eaten apples. Now, the only sounds were the humming refrigerator and the creak of the wooden floors. She gripped the table edge, her heart sinking under the weight of loneliness.
It hadn’t been one terrible moment that tore her family apart—rather, it had been a slow erosion. Small misunderstandings growing into walls, pride calcifying into silence. Her eldest, Lea, hadn’t called in months. Yosef moved two time zones away and rarely answered her messages. Even Avigail, her sweet bridge between everyone, stopped visiting once the arguments got too sharp, too tired to be the peacemaker anymore.
Tonight, Rivka lit the Shabbat candles alone, their soft glow flickering across tear-damp cheeks. She whispered the blessings, and afterward, sat staring into the flames, wishing she could gather her children back like lost sheep. But she’d tried. She had said too much. Done too little. It all seemed so irreparably broken.
“Ribbono Shel Olam," she said aloud, voice cracking. "Have You forgotten us? Have You forgotten me?”
No answer came, but in the corner of her eye, something caught her attention—the family album, left askew on the couch. She hadn't touched it in years. Blinking back tears, Rivka picked it up and sank into her armchair, flipping through the pages. Smiling portraits blurred through her tears: the children, laughing, in homemade Purim costumes. Birthday cakes too big for their tiny hands. Summer trips by the coast.
Beneath a photo of their last Sukkot all together, a scrap of paper tucked itself between the pages: a note, unmistakably Yosef’s messy scrawl. She unfolded it, her breath catching.
"Imma — Thank you for always making us a home to return to, even when we’re stubborn."
A fragile warmth unfurled inside her like the first crocus after a long winter. Maybe they weren’t lost. Maybe they were just... wandering.
Later, when she rose to clear the night’s empty plates, her phone buzzed against the counter. Her heart stuttered. A message from Avigail: "Thinking of you tonight, Imma. Miss your hugs."
In the quiet that followed, Rivka pressed her hand over her heart, the soft message blooming there. No, G-d had not forgotten. His chesed, His loving-kindness, poured down in unseen ways, steady and sure.
She pulled a blanket over her lap, cradling her teacup in two hands. The house still held its silences, but they no longer felt so complete. Trust wasn’t a blaze, she realized; it was an ember—quiet, enduring, waiting to be fanned by hope.
Tomorrow she would call each of them. Not to fix, not to force—but simply to remind them: the door was always open, the light always on.
She sat there a long time, watching the candles dance lower and lower, feeling the peace of Shabbat settle around her like a soft, familiar shawl. Families fracture. Hearts break. But G-d remains — the same across generations, across all the stubborn, wandering years.
And when she finally went to bed, she smiled, a small, grateful smile, whispering into the darkness, "You remembered us after all."
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The house echoed with emptiness in a way Rivka hadn't known was possible. She stood in the kitchen, her hand resting absently on the worn oak table where, once, her daughters had scattered crayons and half-eaten apples. Now, the only sounds were the humming refrigerator and the creak of the wooden floors. She gripped the table edge, her heart sinking under the weight of loneliness.
It hadn’t been one terrible moment that tore her family apart—rather, it had been a slow erosion. Small misunderstandings growing into walls, pride calcifying into silence. Her eldest, Lea, hadn’t called in months. Yosef moved two time zones away and rarely answered her messages. Even Avigail, her sweet bridge between everyone, stopped visiting once the arguments got too sharp, too tired to be the peacemaker anymore.
Tonight, Rivka lit the Shabbat candles alone, their soft glow flickering across tear-damp cheeks. She whispered the blessings, and afterward, sat staring into the flames, wishing she could gather her children back like lost sheep. But she’d tried. She had said too much. Done too little. It all seemed so irreparably broken.
“Ribbono Shel Olam," she said aloud, voice cracking. "Have You forgotten us? Have You forgotten me?”
No answer came, but in the corner of her eye, something caught her attention—the family album, left askew on the couch. She hadn't touched it in years. Blinking back tears, Rivka picked it up and sank into her armchair, flipping through the pages. Smiling portraits blurred through her tears: the children, laughing, in homemade Purim costumes. Birthday cakes too big for their tiny hands. Summer trips by the coast.
Beneath a photo of their last Sukkot all together, a scrap of paper tucked itself between the pages: a note, unmistakably Yosef’s messy scrawl. She unfolded it, her breath catching.
"Imma — Thank you for always making us a home to return to, even when we’re stubborn."
A fragile warmth unfurled inside her like the first crocus after a long winter. Maybe they weren’t lost. Maybe they were just... wandering.
Later, when she rose to clear the night’s empty plates, her phone buzzed against the counter. Her heart stuttered. A message from Avigail: "Thinking of you tonight, Imma. Miss your hugs."
In the quiet that followed, Rivka pressed her hand over her heart, the soft message blooming there. No, G-d had not forgotten. His chesed, His loving-kindness, poured down in unseen ways, steady and sure.
She pulled a blanket over her lap, cradling her teacup in two hands. The house still held its silences, but they no longer felt so complete. Trust wasn’t a blaze, she realized; it was an ember—quiet, enduring, waiting to be fanned by hope.
Tomorrow she would call each of them. Not to fix, not to force—but simply to remind them: the door was always open, the light always on.
She sat there a long time, watching the candles dance lower and lower, feeling the peace of Shabbat settle around her like a soft, familiar shawl. Families fracture. Hearts break. But G-d remains — the same across generations, across all the stubborn, wandering years.
And when she finally went to bed, she smiled, a small, grateful smile, whispering into the darkness, "You remembered us after all."
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
