“What did you say?” she asks across the table. “Did you say cheese and muffins?” “What?” I laugh. “Cheese and muffins? No, I didn’t say that. I was talking about the car and its muffler.” “Oh, I thought you said cheese and muffins,” Mom says, and then she laughs too. Mom often mishears what we say then demands to understand what we are talking about. She wants to be included in our conversations, though they are mostly over her head. Her misinterpretations generate laughs and

There is no escaping the similarities between us. Mom and I look alike. We dress alike. (We both wore blue dresses on Rosh Hashanah, and on Sunday, we were wearing black skirts and white t-shirts, definitely unintentional on my part.) We walk alike. And our voices are somewhat similar, too, despite my American vs. her British accent. I am reminded of these facts every time we are together. It is not something I can avoid: it is genetically determined. I keep wondering how it

What must it seem like to outsiders—that foul mouth, the anger, the obstinacy? Yes, it’s embarrassing to hear Mom lash out verbally at someone, but my dad and I, while not used to it per se, know the rage is fleeting, and though unpredictable, it repeats itself with increasing frequency. We had lunch today with Mom and Daddy’s dear friends from England. My dad and Manny were in junior high school together. In fact, Manny was instrumental in setting my parents up on their firs