That happened on a Thursday. The next night, Friday, Sabbath eve, you fell again. We were in the Sassoon synagogue where we had gone to earn our meal ticket for the Sabbath table at the Chabad house, which was the correct protocol as Shmuly the young rabbi in training had so diplomatically clarified. It was just the two of us that night. I had agreed that Manika should remain at home working on her online outsourcing course, though it was in my opinion an utter waste of time, her English accent was hopeless, the lilt of her speech screamed Indian, she was way too old, no way would she ever be hired. But I appreciated having some alone time with you, quality time, and so we headed out into the downpour, you and I, mother and daughter.

Shmuly was standing with a few of his brothers and his father, Rabbi Mendy, after the closing of the Friday night services to welcome the Sabbath queen at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the women’s balcony, the steps slick with the rain and mud that had been dragged in. “Good Shabbes, Masha,” he greeted you as you descended the staircase fully clothed, including your rain slicker with the hood already drawn up. “My name is Maya,” you snapped back, and went tumbling down the rest of the flight, thank God only five or six steps I counted more or less as I scrambled in desperate maternal angst after you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you couldn’t stop chanting to the small klatch of women in attendance that evening who had clustered around you wringing their hands and quieting their hearts as the men stood back paralyzed, trying not to gape. Why were you apologizing like that? What had you done wrong? I would have given anything to scoop you up in my arms at that moment and carry you away to a safe zone childproof against falling and other life hazards, but it was impossible, you were already such a big girl, my darling.

“Don’t touch me!” you hissed the minute the door to the ladies room sucked shut behind us. Your tights were in shreds at the knees, but thanks to the long skirts you had taken to wearing, not much was really noticeable. There were bruises here and there which would spread into black-and-blue pools under the skin over the next few days I knew—we Tabor women bruised so easily, my mother, you, I—but otherwise there was no discernible serious damage at least to the outer shell. We had been spared, it was a miracle, a bit of cosmetic touch-up and you would be presentable again. You insisted on carrying on with our plans, making our appearance at the Shabbat dinner as if nothing had happened. You were a trouper, my brave little warrior daughter, I was overcome with such admiration and respect.