Simeon was… admittedly like a son to him, not in a soft reminiscent way where the two chatted on the weekends and quickly parted ways. That was his boy… and somehow he saw himself in his eyes when he looked at him, even with no blood between them. He had saved the poor boy after Hyman had found him overdosing on the steps of the synagogue one night… and look at him now, a proud young man who could eat the world raw.

And now he was getting married… Hyman would be kidding himself if he said he wasn’t emotional, emotional from a few different things at once… for one, Sim’s soon-to-be husband was a large, black Catholic with a grill who talked to crystals and plants. And secondly… well his boy was all grown up! He’d found him when he was just 17… and now he had a house and a car, and a job…

So here Hyman stood, at the steps of the address… not in a synagogue, it was a little Russian cathedral in the heart of the city, he… didn’t love that, but he couldn’t judge. He adjusted his shtreimel, taking a deep breath before he opened the door.

Oh… this was very not Jewish..