Thomas, Zeb, and Shoshana step into the Mendelson living room, the late morning light filtering through gauzy curtains, casting soft shadows across the plush rug. The faint scent of cinnamon from the cooling challah lingers, mingling with the warmth of a crackling fireplace. Tamar lounges on the couch, a throw blanket draped over her legs, her bracelets glinting as she props herself up on an elbow. Ruth sits in an armchair, her hands folded over a worn prayer book, while Sholomoh leans against the mantle, his glasses catching the firelight.]

  Tamar (in a playful, pouty voice, fixing Thomas with a mock glare): Did my mean old husband take you to shul and show you off like some prize doll? I hear he even got you dressed up properly.

  Zeb (grinning, settling into a recliner, his boots scuffing the floor): But who called?

  Tamar (her pout softening, her fingers twirling a loose thread on the blanket): The Rebbetzin. She was just commenting on the difference between his physical presence and his emotional state. She saw him in the yahrzeit room. So she was making sure we knew it was a rough morning emotionally for him.

  Zeb (his brow furrowing, leaning forward, elbows on his knees): I’m not sure I could tell.

  Shoshana (sitting close to Thomas on the couch, her navy skirt brushing his knee, her voice soft but steady): From what I know, he hasn’t been in a place where he could be anything else. He shared with me what he did when his mom died. He just walked and rode all over Angleton. But there was no one really to talk to. No place where he felt safe to share his emotions. That was his normal.

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  Zeb (his fingers tapping the armrest, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully): But he looked so calm. Once he had the tefillin on, he looked like he belonged.

  Ruth (her voice gentle, her hands tightening slightly on the prayer book): That’s the thing that’s missed. People don’t scare him. It’s the offer of acceptance—and having it taken away—that scares him. You know Shoshana and all the support she needed, yet she still struggles with processing emotions. Now imagine without all of our support. What do you think she would be like?

  Zeb (his tapping stilling, his voice low): That would be bad. So his stoic face is a survival mechanism.

  Sholomoh (nodding, his fingers adjusting his glasses, his tone measured): Yes, because his emotions kept getting him in trouble.

  Zeb (turning to Thomas, his expression softening with concern): Did I do something wrong?

  Thomas (sitting forward, his hands clasped tightly, his voice quiet but firm): No, you did nothing wrong. I went willingly. Partly because I was curious, partly to learn. I was with people I knew. But I felt like I was in a place where I didn’t know the rules. I wasn’t expecting to be anything but present.

  [The room falls quiet, the fire’s crackle filling the space. Shoshana’s hand brushes Thomas’s, her thumb resting lightly on his knuckles. Tamar’s playful facade fades, her eyes glistening as she tucks the blanket closer. Ruth’s gaze lingers on Thomas, a maternal warmth in her expression. Sholomoh steps forward, his hand resting briefly on Zeb’s shoulder, a silent reassurance.]