Mothers are known to bring all sorts of guilt, at least that’s what they say.

Guilt about not calling them enough, not coming by for lunch, not doing what they thought would be the best thing to do, in any situation.

But if you don’t have a Jewish mother, you know absolutely nothing about guilt.

“Sweetheart, it looks like you decided to get the challah from that new bakery.” My mother, Sarah, stands in my kitchen, scrutinizing each thing I’ve made for Friday night Shabbat dinner.

What she doesn’t say is that she would have bought the challah she’d used for my entire life, from the bakery she frequented near her house, but that I couldn’t find at the grocery store. This would be a point of contention for years now, she’d bring it up every time we had challah. The time I bought the wrong kind. Thankfully, I got the right gefilte fish.

“It’s challah, Mom. It’s on the side and we dip it in soup or spread butter or gefilte fish on it. It all tastes the same.” I roll my eyes but smile because I love having my parents around.

Jews from Queens, they had that East Coast attitude through and through. They’d grown up with money, but both sets of my grandparents had made them work from the age of fifteen. They’d made something of themselves, a professor of literature and an accountant respectively. Mom had stocked my library with the classics, while Dad had always taught me the importance of finance and numbers. Even now, my father went through my books with me each quarter to make sure the business, it’s taxes, and reports were properly filed.

When I’d moved down to Charlotte, my parents had said goodbye to the cold weather and followed me. Now my father freelanced, my mother was retired but spent her time volunteering at the local library, and we had dinner almost every Friday night.

“It’s a good-looking brisket, bubbala.” My dad, Aaron, slices the meat and places it on the white platter I placed out specifically for it.

It was my week to host, and while I was dead tired, conversation and time spent with my parents could never be beat.

“Thanks, Dad. The soup is almost done, and we have to wait for one more person, and then we’ll be ready.”

I went to the cabinet to grab the Manischewitz and avoided my mother’s beady stare.

“One more?” Her tone is way too excited.

If my mother could have sold me off and had ten grandchildren by the time I was twenty-two, she would have.

“Yes, one more.” I hustle into my dining room, getting away from her curious questions and proud looks.

I hadn’t been sure if I wanted to introduce Paxton to my parents yet, but when I’d mentioned Shabbat dinner, his ears had perked up. He was just crazy enough to want an invite, and he’d worn me down until I reluctantly said he could join us.

Good thing for my sense of humor, he had absolutely no idea what he was in for.

“Who is this young man?” Mom practically jumps on me as I set the table.

Part of me wants to brag, but the child in me wants to withhold facts from my mother simply because it’s kind of fun to watch her squirm.

“You’re going to meet him in about twenty minutes, can’t you just wait?”

She stops, clutching the gold Jewish star necklace that she always wears. “Demi Rachel Rosen. I have waited thirty whole years for this moment. You will not keep me in suspense one minute longer.”

Like I said, buckets of guilt.

I give them the only piece of information that I know they’ll grill Paxton about. “I will say this … he’s not Jewish.”

My mother says, “Oy vey” at the same time my father pops his head in and demands, “What?”

“He is not Jewish. And don’t act so enraged, you’d rather have me happy than unmarried.” I knew this to be very true.

My parents look at me, their gazes unapproving but I also know they’re seeing my reasoning.

“As long as he’s a mensch, I’ll give him a chance.” My mother inclines her head, and my father doesn’t say a word.

He learned long ago not to disagree with my mother. Even if she was wrong, explaining why she was took more effort than just staying silent.

Twenty minutes later, exactly on the dot, Paxton shows up with flowers in one hand and a bakery box in the other. He presents them to my mother, who wraps him in a big hug and I know instantly that he’s sold her.

“Oh, look, bubbala, he brought rugelach!” She is so over the moon about him already, I can tell.

When she turns her back, Paxton mouths the nickname at me and raises an eyebrow. Why do I know that he’s going to tease me for that later?

Mom joins Dad in the dining room, and Pax uses the moment to steal a kiss. Now that I’ve given him the go ahead, he won’t stop kissing me. And I’m not complaining, the man could win a Lombardi trophy for making out.

We all sit down for dinner, and Dad immediately starts in. “Wait a minute, you’re that football player …”

Pax chuckles, looking at me. “Now I see where you get your love of sports.”

It’s true, my family has never been big into organized athletic events. I’m not sure why, but my parents never gave a crap about this country’s obsession with grown men chasing, hitting or catching balls.

“You play football? How nice!” My mom bats her eyelashes at him, and all criticism of him not being Jewish is seriously outside with Elijah.

“Either that or I run around a field trying to catch a ball like a five-year-old. My profession is basically for overgrown boys who never grew up.”

“You’ve got chutzpah, kid. I’ll give you that.” Dad stands with his wine glass, reaching to get more, and slaps Paxton on the back, grinning.

I shook my head and dropped it into my hands. Only my father would tell the leading tight end in the NFL that he had chutzpah.

Truth was, my father could care less what the person I dated did, or how much money they made. As long as they treated me with respect, he was okay with it. He’d always made that clear, not that I’d brought many boys around my folks.

The rest of dinner goes swimmingly, with my parents hanging on every word that Pax says, and my mother giving everyone grief.

“Eat more. Eat!”

“Demi, I wish you’d wear your hair back more, I love it like that.”

“Aaron, not too much red meat, you know what it does to your stomach.”

The only one she didn’t chide was the man who seemed to have stolen all of our hearts. When it’s time to go, my mom wraps me in a big hug.

“I’m just verklempt, I’m so happy. Mazel tov, sweetheart,” Mom whispers in my ear as she kisses me goodbye.

The thing is, I’m verklempt, too. It’s been a long time since a man made me this nervous, or this hot for him.

Come to think of it, Paxton had been the only guy to ever make me feel this way.

“I like you, even if you are a shegetz.” Dad shakes Pax’s hand as my parents make their way out.

“I’ll get you guys tickets to next week’s game, so you can come see what football looks like.” Pax smiles good-naturedly.

They finally go, and it’s sadly quiet without their hemming and hawing.

“They’re freaking awesome.” He takes me in his arms, pressing his lips against my forehead. “Thank you for letting me be a part of a family again.”

I just settle into him, loving the feel of his warmth and strength around me. I don’t say it, but I wasn’t letting him be a part of my family. He was becoming part of it, way too quickly for my heart to process.

Fear gripped me, and yet, I didn’t want to let him go. I didn’t want him to go home, I wanted him to stay here. Uncertainty surrounded me, and the walls I’d carefully used to guard my heart since him didn’t know whether to fortify themselves, or fall.