While we hold our secrets close to our hearts, sometimes they slip out. Five stories
When I married my husband, I went from belonging to a family that waited three hours between eating fleishigs and milchigs to a family who had the minhag of waiting six. I’d rib my husband about this only half-jokingly: “As a baal teshuvah who’s unsure of his family’s mesorah, you can select your minhagim. So why in the world did you decide to pick six hours?”
“Because I researched the inyan and felt it’s the right thing to do,” he’d volley back. “If it bothers you so much, you’re welcome to look into my family history and try to find someone who really liked ice cream.”