December 1901 arrived, bringing with it a lovely festive atmosphere. The Kingstons had traveled to the warm expanses of Texas not just for the holiday celebration, but to check on their growing interests—the blossoming oil business and the new venture into rice farming, which they had started on the expert advice of Joseph Eloi Broussard.
Mary's heart was entirely focused on the menorah. As a Jew, she hadn't truly celebrated Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights—a holiday celebrating the miracle of perseverance and light—in two decades.
Her decision to marry John, a Christian, had resulted in her parents disowning her. She had intentionally avoided the ritual, as she did not want to experience the pain of rejection and the flood of painful family memories.
This year, however, was different. Though her parents had passed away a decade ago, the silence with the rest of her kin—her aunts and cousins—had remained absolute until two years ago. That was when her younger brother, Daniel Rosenberg, cautiously reached out. The initial contact between them started with formal, tentative letters, but Mary had slowly and deliberately worked to bridge the divide with her family.
With the silence finally broken, Mary had meticulously planned the celebration, which in 1901 ran from December 6th through the 14th. Her family was coming: her aunts (father's two sisters), their children, and her younger brother, Daniel Rosenberg, along with his own family. This reunion, centered on the ancient eight-day holiday, meant everything.
(The core of Hanukkah is the story of the Maccabees, who fought for religious freedom and the rededication of the Temple in Jerusalem. When they relit the Temple's Menorah, they found only enough sacred oil to burn for one day, yet miraculously, the flame lasted for eight. That miracle is relived each night by lighting one candle more than the night before until all eight glow brightly.)
Mary's family arrived in the late afternoon, driven by chauffeurs John had dispatched to the station in three large automobiles. The destination was the Kingston two-storey ranch mansion.
Michael, standing near a window in the parlor room, observed their arrival with curiosity.
The first two figures to step out of the lead car were elderly women, both appearing to be in their sixties. These were Mary's aunts, her father's younger sisters.
Following them came Daniel, his wife and children.
The first two figures to step out of the lead car were elderly women, both appearing to be in their sixties. These were Mary's aunts, her father's younger sisters.
Following them, Daniel, his wife, and two children emerged from the second automobile.
The third car carried the two aunts' two sons. Their wives and children did not accompany them.
Michael, watching the faces of the aunts and their sons, instinctively thought: Trouble with a capital T. His uncle Daniel, however, seemed approachable.
John, Mary, Elizabeth, and George moved out onto the steps to greet them. Though the initial meeting appeared cordial—Mary holding her brother Daniel in a long embrace, John offering a warm handshake to the aunts' sons—Michael could still feel the tension radiating off the group, thick and heavy as the Texas heat. It was the forced pleasantry of two worlds colliding after two decades of deliberate separation.
Despite the fraught beginning, the Hanukkah celebration continued. Six days passed without a hitch. The two elderly women, Betty and Emma, maintained a frosty distance, mostly ignoring Michael, which he found perfectly acceptable. Mary's brother, Daniel, his wife Sophia, and their children were the easiest to integrate. Daniel's son, David, was fifteen-year-old, while his daughter, Sara, was twelve.
After dinner on the sixth night, Mary retreated to a small, private drawing-room with Betty, Emma, and their two sons. The conversation began gently, reminiscing about Mary's childhood and her parents.
Betty, the elder and more severe of the two, leaned forward, her voice cutting through the quiet Texas evening. "Mary," she began, "it is a great tragedy that the Almighty has not blessed your home. You are not a young woman anymore. And there is no chance now as you are forty this year. Don't you feel sad being barren?"
Mary's face tightened, the question striking her deepest vulnerability. "I am not barren, Aunt Betty," she managed, her voice tight. "Michael is my child. I am his mother in every way that matters."
Emma scoffed, a short, sharp sound of disbelief. "You are being a fool, Mary. Your brother-in-law's son is not your flesh and blood. How could Michael truly be your child?"
Mary felt the air leave her lungs, but her control, honed over twenty years, did not break. The room was silent save for the faint crackling of the Texas cedar logs in the fireplace. The two sons, silent observers to the family drama, shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.
"He is my child," Mary repeated, her voice steady. She met Emma's cold, judgmental gaze directly. "He is my heart, and your judgment changes nothing about that reality."
It was then that Betty's son, Raymond, spoke up, a sneer twisting his mouth. "Wake up, Cousin. He is not your flesh and blood. And isn't he not even a pure white?"
Mary was silent, the air trapped in her chest.
Emma's son, Howard, seized the moment, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Come on, we inquired. Isn't his mother a bastard daughter of a British officer in India? Isn't she the result of that relationship?"
"They were married," Mary said softly, barely a whisper.
"Oh, humbug," Betty cut in, slamming her hand on the arm of her chair. "Who knows what truly happened on that continent? The facts are simple: Michael is not Jew and his blood is not pure. How can he be your child?"
"Why are you talking about this now?" Mary asked weakly.
Betty exchanged a swift, calculated look with Emma. "Because, Mary, we cannot allow your share of the Kingston fortune to pass to that mixed-blood child. It must be preserved and inherited by your own pure blood and kin."
Emma smiled. "We are offering a solution, dear. You should adopt your brother Daniel's son, David. Or you could adopt one of your cousin's children. That way, you can pass down your inheritance to your own family."
Howard and Raymond immediately perked up at the suggestion, their eyes bright with sudden, avaricious interest.
Mary remained silent for a long moment. "I... I need some time," she finally said softly. "I need to talk to John about this."
Betty and Emma exchanged satisfied smiles. "Take your time, Mary," Betty said, her voice now patronizingly sweet. "But come to the correct decision."
"I will, Aunt Betty," Mary replied, her voice low. She rose to her full height. "I will see you all tomorrow." With that, she left the room.
The instant the door clicked shut behind her, Howard and Raymond turned eagerly to their mothers.
"Do you truly believe she will agree, Mother?" Howard asked.
Emma looked utterly certain. "She will. Mary is always weak towards family. She never went against our words before."
"But twenty years of distance might have changed her resolve," Raymond cautioned.
"Nonsense," Emma dismissed. "No matter how many years one's true nature remains unchanged. To Mary, the concept of family is paramount; she will choose to align with us. Moreover, securing the adoption of Daniel's son, David, provides us the stability we need, as Daniel, frankly, lacks the acumen to manage such a fortune."
Howard and Raymond exchanged knowing glances. "Precisely. Daniel has shown little aptitude for wealth management," Howard remarked.
"Therefore, it becomes incumbent upon us, as his cousins, to ensure the inheritance is responsibly stewarded," Raymond concluded with a dry chuckle.