Last fall, on the eve of Rosh Hashana, my daughters, my husband and I ate dinner at my parents’ house. Baked chicken, green beans and chocolate cake. After, my parents rushed off to temple, as they do each Jewish New Year, and Dan, Hannah, Audrey and I headed across San Francisco, home.
I’m 46, but I still found the separation thrilling: My parents set the rules for their family. Dan and I set the rules for ours. It’s good to grow up and become the boss.
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