by Sandell Morse
What a mother learn about herself when her son struggle with an intermarriage
One day, Richard, my oldest son, and I were eating in a Jewish delicatessen in Cambridge. “Look, Ma,” he said, gesturing to the framed photo on the deli wall. What I saw was an old bearded man in yarmulke and tallis, a Torah resting on his shoulder, his eyes seeming to be full of joy and yearning.