It feels like the right night for a mahjong event.
Wintery and cold — but not the kind of cold that makes you resent leaving your house.

There’s soup.
There’s wine.
It feels cozy. Easy. Just right.

People we know show up.
People we don’t know yet show up.

They bring their tiles. Sets range from Amazon specials (mine 🙋🏻‍♀️) to grandmother heirlooms. There’s a team of a grandmother, a mom, and two granddaughters. There are three different tables of women who learned how to play during the war — a way to distract, to steady themselves.

There’s low music in the background. The soft clink of tiles. Laughter that rises and settles.

At some point, three of my biological kids walk in. One has managed to get a night off from the army to come play for a few hours before heading back. Two of my “adopted” kids come too.

It couldn’t be more perfect.

There’s a moment where I look around and want to freeze the scene — not in a photo, but somewhere deeper. A core memory.

This, for me, is the essence of the Meshek.
Nothing flashy.
No huge production value.

Just people who love each other sitting next to people who don’t know each other yet. Playing for a few hours.

My thanks will forever go to my mahj world — Abi, Michele, Cippi, and Jessica (and the OG Danielle!) — who make my week happier every week and were the most willing, generous partners in pulling this off.

It’s just right.