AN: I love this musical, however, I don't own it!

Do You Love Me?

I continued to prepare for dinner and tried to ignore my husband, when suddenly he asked me something I never thought he would. "Golde, do you love me?," he asked. I looked up at him, confused as to why he would say something like that, "Do I what?" I asked incredulously, never pausing in my preparations. "Shh," he whispered, like he wanted this to be a secret, "do you love me?," he asked again with an almost hopeful expression on his face. "Do I love you?," I asked, making sure that is the question he was asking. "Well?," he asked, looking like he was expecting a genuine answer. "With our daughters getting married and this trouble in the town. You're upset, you're worn out, go inside, go lie down," I said, evading his question thinking that maybe stress has finally piled too high upon his shoulders as I moved around the room towards the stove, "maybe it's indigestion," "No Golde, I'm asking you a question," he said while he followed me around the room, "do you love me?" "You're a fool!," I exclaimed. "I know," he replied, "but do you love me?" "Do you love you?," I replied back to him. "Well?," he asked, that hopeful expression upon his face once more. "For twenty-five years, I've washed your clothes, cooked your meals, cleaned your house. Given you children, milked your cow, after twenty-five years why talk about love right now?," I asked, once again evading his question. "Golde, the first time I met you was on our wedding day," he said reminiscing that fateful day.

"I was scared," he admitted.

"I was shy," I admitted.

"I was nervous."

"So was I."

"But my father and my mother said we'd learn to love each other," he told me, "and now I'm asking, Golde, do you love me?," he asked again.

"I'm your wife!," I told him.

"I know," he exclaimed as I walked across the room towards the bed, "but do you love me?"

"Do I love him?," I asked myself, wondering if I really had grown to love this fool of a man, but not wanting to face him.

"Well?," he asked again, hope clear evident in his voice.

"For twenty-five years, I've lived with him, fought with him, starved with him. Twenty-five years my bed is his," I said to myself as my voice steadily grew louder. "Shh!," he whispered again, clearly trying to lower my raising voice. "If that's not love what is?," I said as I finally turned around to face him and sat on the bed. "Then you love me?," he questioned excitedly, looking like a small, happy boy as he crossed the room towards me. "I suppose I do," I said, resigning to the fact that I truly did love him. "And I suppose I love you too," he said, looking at me shyly. It doesn't change a thing, but even so, I thought to myself, after twenty-five years it's nice to know. He looked at me shyly once again as he sat on the bed next to me and playfully bumped my shoulder with his, and I knew that he thought the same.