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So stunned were we absolution by her prediction that we needed to make the words our own. "Oy, you fucking Jew," absolution I say to my husband now with absolution a Woody Allen-delivery. Imbued with the silly sweetness of our prenuptial bliss, with our retreat from maternal fury, the phrase makes him giggle. I have, with great practice and, finally, habit, achieved just the right breathiness to my oy, just the right exasperation, as though I've walked six miles to the butcher and Mrs. Kline bought the last chicken. She said other things as well, all cruel and absurd, all spewing forth from a deep shock that her only son -- a son who led the entire service of his Bar Mitzvah in near-perfect Hebrew -- was marrying a WASP. With the grace of hindsight, I realize that none of this was about me. At the time, however, I was deeply hurt that she didn't like me, that she was uninterested in getting to know me.
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