Zibby Mag

By Jill Goldstein

I changed my name from Moskowitz to Goldstein when I married my first husband, Steven, in 1996. As Jewish names go, I considered it a lateral move. I was 28 and wanted the fairy-tale wedding, which we had at the Crystal Plaza in Livingston, New Jersey. Steve was 29, and when he wore glasses, people said he looked like the actor Rick Moranis. Five years later, on September 11th, 2001, Steve went to work. He had just started at Cantor Fitzgerald three weeks prior, and as the “new guy” was determined to be the first one in every morning. But that day he never came home.

My life seemed over at 33, but I couldn’t dive off the deep end because we had two children who needed me. Hanna was three at the time and her little brother Harris would celebrate his first birthday the following week. One morning, after months filled with blurry, robotic days, I was walking Hanna to a playdate.

She looked up at me, her face a carbon copy of her dad’s with smiling eyes and full, Angelina Jolie lips, and asked, “Are we ever going to get another daddy?” I needed a moment to steady myself before answering.

Undoubtedly, Hanna and Harris deserved a father but that meant I would have to marry again. It was inconceivable that I would ever love another man the way I loved Steve. He was my Bechert, Yiddish for “destined one.” There could never be another. I wondered whether to confess that the thought of calling anyone else “husband” and hearing my children call someone else “dad” was revolting to me. Yet that seemed completely selfish and unfair. I managed to stutter my reply, “Maybe one day, sweetheart.”

As more time went on, I realized how much I missed not only being married to Steve but simply being married. I wanted someone with whom I could laugh about the ridiculous American Idol contestants, hold hands while falling asleep, and even argue over the thermostat setting. Gradually, the idea of sharing my life with someone else, and giving Hanna and Harris the chance to grow up with a father, seemed less repulsive. It slowly began to sound appealing. I would never let go of Steve, but so much of him lived on through the kids. In them, I could already see his facial expressions and quirky sense of humor.

Fourteen months after Steve’s death, I was fixed up with a man named Eric Goldstein.

At six-foot-three, with dark skin and thick black hair, he looked nothing like Steve. Yet, with similar laid-back dispositions and welcoming smiles, they had more than just the last name in common.

During our first phone conversation, I learned Eric was divorced and shared custody of his two sons. When he told me their names were Jacob and Harris I laughed, assuming he was joking. “No seriously, what are their names?” I asked. “I swear they really are Jacob and Harris.” “My son’s name is Harris too,” I responded in disbelief. What were the chances of us having not only the same last name, but sons with the same first name as well? We couldn’t get over the freaky coincidence. I was so floored that as soon as we hung up, I immediately called him back. “Do you really have a son named Harris Goldstein?” I asked. “I really do,” he said. I could tell by his tone that he got a kick out of it and was smiling on the other end.

During the next year, Eric and I fell in love. We eventually got engaged and bought a house together in Short Hills, New Jersey. Our first order of business was to figure out how to differentiate between the two Harrises. Eric’s boys spent half of the week with us and the other half at their mom’s, so at least fifty percent of the time we had two Harris Goldsteins living in the same house. We decided to use their middle names: Harris Corey was Eric’s son and Harris Adam was mine. Eric and I, along with Jacob, Hanna, Harris Corey, and Harris Adam, moved into our newly constructed house in March of 2004.

In May of that year, I married Eric and became Mrs. Goldstein for the second time. This time, I wore a pale green dress and we tented our backyard for the celebration. Hanna and Harris Adam were over the moon. As if a genie had granted their most coveted wish, they got their “new daddy.” I later pointed out how lucky they were to have two daddies, one in heaven and one here. We decided to use the monikers “daddy Steve” and “daddy Eric” to specify.

In October of 2005, Eric approached me to ask if he could legally adopt Hanna and Harris Adam. He had already consulted with an attorney to inquire about the process. He wanted to take that extra step and make it official. He wasn’t trying to replace Steve, but felt it was important that Hanna and Harris grow up with the security that came along with formal adoption. I was overwhelmed with gratitude for Eric, but I also felt guilty and sad. I knew this was the best thing for my children, but I wondered what it meant for Steve. Would he still be their father?

“Hanna, daddy Steve will always be your father. Nothing can ever change that. But Eric will do the things daddy Steve can no longer do, like take you to father-daughter dances and cheer at your recitals. You don’t have to make a choice—you can have them both,” I offered.

Hanna and Harris seemed overjoyed with the idea and wanted it to happen as quickly as possible. The required background checks, letters of reference, and fingerprints seemed invasive but went smoothly. On March 9, 2006, we were scheduled to appear before a judge to officially sign the papers. I had no reservations until the night before the hearing.

“Did you hear that?” Eric shook me awake asking at 2 a.m. The sound of muffled voices was coming from the hallway. We opened our bedroom door and saw Hanna. She was wearing a light-blue ski jacket over her satin Cinderella nightgown, along with big, puffy pink snow boots. She seemed puzzled and kept repeating, “We have to go, we have to go,” while dragging her little brother, in his T-shirt and boxer shorts, down the hallway.

Realizing she was sleepwalking, as she sometimes did, we tucked both kids back into their beds. Back in ours, Eric conked out right away, but I was shaken. I feared Hanna’s nightmare was some kind of omen warning me not to go through with the adoption. The next morning all six of us—Eric, the four kids, and myself—piled into our SUV and drove to the courthouse in Newark. Fran, our blonde, assertive attorney, was waiting there for us. “The judge is finishing up another case,” she said. “He will probably be ready in 15 minutes.” In the cavernous waiting area, the kids started bickering and Hanna broke down in a heap of sobs. “I don’t want to be adopted,” she said. I scooped her up and ran toward the bathroom, just as the judge called our case. I told Fran I needed a moment.

In the bathroom, I picked up my little girl and placed her on the cracked Formica countertop. I looked her straight in the eye and said “Hanna, you don’t have to do this. We can get in the car right now and go home.” I was able to calm her down, reinforcing the fact that this was optional, not required. She finally blurted out, “I don’t want daddy Steve to be mad at me.” I couldn’t hold back my sobbing. I took a deep breath and said

“Hanna, daddy Steve will always be your father. Nothing can ever change that. But Eric will do the things daddy Steve can no longer do, like take you to father-daughter dances and cheer at your recitals. You don’t have to make a choice—you can have them both,” I offered.

“So daddy Steve won’t be mad at me for doing this?” she asked. “No, angel, it’s what he would have wanted. But you have to do what feels right in your heart.”

“I want daddy Eric to adopt me,” she said with relief. We splashed cold water on our faces and went into the courtroom where everyone was waiting for us. I wondered if the judge would question our red eyes and blotchy faces. He commended Eric for performing this noble gesture and granted the adoption without hesitation. My insides were twisting around as I clutched Hanna on my lap.

We had a big celebration at our home that night. Our closest friends brought Mylar balloons, one that read, “It’s a boy!” and the other, “It’s a girl!” After flatbread pizza and champagne, I stood on a kitchen stool and spoke about the profound expression of love Eric demonstrated that morning and how lucky we were to have him. Of the thirty-five people there, all were moved to tears.

That June, I got a letter from our attorney. It said they needed to issue new birth certificates for the kids and gave the address where to send the $54 fee. I was about to comply, but something wasn’t sitting right. When I called Fran she confirmed my suspicion: “In order for the courts to issue new birth certificates, they need to remove Steve’s name and replace it with Eric’s,” she said.

“You want me to erase his name and pretend he never even existed?” I asked in shock. Yet he was their biological father, the one who wept witnessing their births, the one who was supposed to walk Hanna down the aisle one day. “It’s my job to give you the necessary information, what you do with it is up to you,” she concluded.

Seventeen years later, the letter and payment instructions still sit in a folder in my file cabinet. I couldn’t bring myself to send it in. I’m hoping, since we are all “Goldsteins,” nobody will notice.

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Jill Goldstein is a preschool teacher and the owner of Denimrepair.com. She lives in South Orange, NJ, with her husband, four children, and two dogs. Jill writes and lectures on her experience as a 9/11 widow with the hope of helping and inspiring people struggling with grief.