Mum, what can I say. You were the first person up every Friday morning, polishing the kiddush cup and laying the table, and the last to bed every Friday night, because someone always stayed until the candles burned right down. You raised the three of us with quiet certainty — that we'd do the right thing, that we'd come back for Shabbos, and that we'd remember where we came from. You taught us that kindness wasn't an idea — it was an act. You showed us mornings, in the way you greeted the postman by name and asked after his mother. You showed us nights, in the way you'd press a Tupperware of soup into the hands of anyone who looked even slightly unwell. You were our first language. You were Budapest in your accent, Sydney in your humour, and Bondi in your fierce belief that no problem couldn't be solved over a cup of tea. The nine grandchildren and three great-grandchildren you left behind will tell their children about you. The Bondi Mizrachi will tell their children about you. And we — David, Rachel, and I — will carry you with us, in every choice we make, in every Friday night we host, in every act of kindness we manage on the days the world makes that hard. May your neshama have an aliyah. May your memory be a blessing. — Daniel