The Neighbor Who Yelled: What Mishloach Manot Taught Us

“Ugh, he yelled at us again.”

The kid burst into the house like a gust of wind, not even stopping to drop his bag before complaining. “Every time we go up the stairs, he opens the door and yells. What, is he tracking us?”

I understood him.

Yosef was not thrilled about living in a lively building with kids constantly running up and down the stairs, sometimes even jumping on them. Since we moved to the third floor, the neighbor on the first floor, an elderly and lonely man, had not stopped shouting. The kids were genuinely scared.

No matter how careful we tried to be, every footstep seemed to set him off.

The kids were frustrated, and I was even more so. Yosef’s presence cast a heavy shadow over the building. It was not just us; other neighbors felt it too. Was the only solution to peace and quiet never leaving the house? With all the empathy in the world, we also had the right to live there. And moving was not an option.

One day the yelling reached my ears directly. I do not know who crossed the line, the kids or Yosef’s tolerance.

“That’s it,” I thought. “I have to do something.”

The First Mishloach Manot

The next day, after returning from the Megillah reading, I called one of my kids over.

“Here,” I said, handing him a carefully prepared mishloach manot. “This is for Yosef.”

He looked at me like I had lost my mind. “No way. I am not going to him. I do not want him yelling at me again. I have had enough of his shouting this week.”

I understood. “You know what,” I said gently. “Just knock, place it by the door carefully, and come back.”

A few minutes later he came running upstairs. “I put it down. I do not think he is even home.”

The next day Yosef ran into my child on the stairs and muttered a weak “thanks” under his breath. Whether it came with a smile was debatable.

A year passed. Yosef kept yelling. And we learned to live with it.

A Small Crack in the Wall

The following Purim, remembering the previous year, I decided to bring Yosef’s mishloach manot earlier, hoping we might hand it to him face to face. Maybe seeing us would soften something.

The child knocked lightly. No answer. He placed the package at the doorstep and went on his way. As he climbed the stairs, he heard the door open and Yosef quietly pull the package inside.

That afternoon, the kids were playing in the courtyard when they spotted Yosef approaching from afar. They froze. As he drew closer, he reached into a sagging bag, pulled out a candy for each child, handed them out silently, and turned back.

The kids looked at me. My heart swelled.

The Third Year

What happened in the third year was beyond anything we could have imagined.

We came home from synagogue in costume, full of Purim cheer, when suddenly there was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” I called.

“Yosef,” came a faint reply.

I opened the door hesitantly. Before I could fully register what I was seeing, a giant mishloach manot appeared in front of me. Behind it stood Yosef, almost swallowed by the package, a small kippah perched on his head for the occasion.

“Chag sameach,” he said, placing the elegant mishloach manot on the table.

The kids peeked out of their rooms, thinking an uncle had arrived. When they realized it was Yosef, they instinctively stepped back.

“Happy Purim,” he repeated, nodding toward them, and then turned and left.

And me? I just stood there smiling.

What mishloach manot can do.

A Quiet Invitation

I have carried this story with me for a few years, unsure whether to write it down.

This year I decided to share it, in the hope that maybe one more Yosef will receive a mishloach manot, a smile, a kind word, a bit of recognition.

Because there is no shortage of Yosefs in every building, on every street, in every neighborhood.

Look around. He is waiting for someone to extend a hand.