For a long time—as his brother was taken back and forth to a special medical home
and was forced to wear braces on his legs, which left him limping—Morrie felt responsible.
So in the mornings, he went to synagogue—by himself, because his father was not a religious man—
and he stood among the swaying men in their long black coats and he asked God to take care of his dead mother and his sick brother.
And in the afternoons, he stood at the bottom of the subway steps and hawked magazines,
turning whatever money he made over to his family to buy food.
In the evenings, he watched his father eat in silence, hoping for—but never getting—a show of affection, communication, warmth.
At nine years old, he felt as if the weight of a mountain were on his shoulders.
But a saving embrace came into Morrie’s life the following year: his new stepmother, Eva.
She was a short Romanian immigrant with plain features, curly brown hair, and the energy of two women.
She had a glow that warmed the otherwise murky atmosphere his father created.
She talked when her new husband was silent, she sang songs to the children at night.
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