“Mommy?” Ahuva’s tiny voice calls, as I sigh and plod back down the hall to my little girl’s room for the fourth time tonight.
“What is it, sweetie?” I ask, trying to hide my growing impatience.
“I don’t want to go to Gan Anafa.”
I can hear the lump in her throat. There is defiance mixed with fear and a bit of sadness. Funny how our tone alone can convey so much. I take a deep breath and smooth the golden wisps from her forehead. “Oh, Ahuvaleh,” I console her, as I have every other night and morning since her new preschool started. “I know it’s hard to go to school in a new language and not understand what the morah or the other kids are saying, but it will get easier. I promise.”
Inwardly, though, I question this promise.