I knew this day would come. It was the seventh day of Passover, and I stood – on purpose – in the very back of the synagogue, dreading the inevitable. I watched as most of my fellow congregants silently exited the room as yizkor, the memorial prayer for the dead, was about to begin. But my feet, like lead weights stuck to the floor, would take me nowhere. I would never leave again. In past years, I would always number myself as one of the lucky ones who counted no member of their immediate family among the departed, as one...