The Grand(mother) Scheme of Things

Abraham and his parents agreed to not tell Bubbie, his Orthodox Jewish grandmother, about me just yet. The reasons varied: she had previously not taken an interfaith relationship well, and it would have broken Abe's heart to disappoint her.

"She's really important to me. I want you two to get along," he explained once.

"So just tell her something really bad so I won't be so bad in comparison. 'Bubs, I'm quitting my job and moving home with my parents. Just kidding. I have a girlfriend and she isn't Jewish.'"

Abe snorted.

"When are you going to tell her?"

"I wanted to tell her in person."

"So Hanukkah?"

"Probably."

But Abraham didn't get the chance. After seeing our pictures together crop up on Facebook followed by becoming Facebook official, a cousin told his mom, who in turn told Bubbie. Bubbie then logged on Facebook and saw for herself.

"Abraham, the one who made me a Bubbie," she wrote on his profile, "HUH????????????? (re: relationship)."

Oh shit.

Abraham called her after work and told her about me. But instead of being angry about my religion, she was angry that he waited so long to tell her.

"She didn't even ask if you were Jewish until like the 15th question," he told me. "It was way later than I thought it was going to be."

Bubbie was elated. She loved her grandson and wanted him to be happy. She asked him if she could write me an email.

"She would love that," he told her.

"Okay, but I'll send it to you first so you can proofread it," she said.

By the weekend a card arrived in Abraham's mailbox addressed to me in care of him. Bubbie didn't write an email. She handwrote a letter.

Sunday evening Abraham handed me the envelope. "Read it," he smiled.

I sat on his bed, dumbfounded that his family was taking this kind of care of me. The letter was beautiful and I struggled not to cry as I read it out loud. She wrote that she had a special bond with her oldest grandson and that if he loved me, she loved me.

"I'm going to impart some wisdom of my 80-something years," she wrote. "Be good to each other, love each other and be each other's best friends."

I looked at Abraham and swallowed a lump. It was all so beautiful.

"And don't shlep this out," I read. I looked at him again, "Shlep?" I didn't know what the phrase meant.

Abraham shrugged.

I googled the word. "'Shlep. A person who is dimwitted. An idiot.' What? That makes no sense."

"I don't know," he offered. "Do you want to call her now?"

"Okay."

Abraham dialed Bubbie on speakerphone. She asked if I got the letter. He angled the phone toward me.

"I did!" I exclaimed.

Bubbie gasped like she was just handed a Publisher's Clearinghouse $100,000 check. "Hi! You just made my day!" she fussed.

I laid on Abraham's shoulder as we spoke to his grandmother. The feeling was bittersweet. I was sad I didn't have any grandparents left to dote on Abraham like his grandmother was treating me. He would receive no such letter.

"Did you get the last sentence?" she asked eagerly.

"Funny you ask, Bubbie." Abraham said. "She didn't and she had to look it up."

"What did it say?"

"It said it was an idiot, but that didn't make sense."

"Oh no!" she cried. "That is a shlepper! 'Shlep' means 'to drag,' as in don't drag this out!"

I laughed hard. She wanted us to get married.

I nestled into Abraham's shoulder. He wouldn't say what he told her on that initial phone call; he simply blamed the blog again. But whatever he told her about me, it must have been wonderful.

There we were, lying on his bed on a Sunday evening and talking to his grandmother. Everyone was laughing and happy. I looked up to Abraham and watched him smile as we spoke to her.

This is it, I thought definitively. I'm done being single. This is the man I'm going to marry.