I stepped down from the bus at the Leicester inter-city bus station and cast my eyes over the taxi drivers.

My old hometown of Leicester isn't the same anymore. It's now a crime-ridden city, and I was feeling rather uncomfortable.

I climbed into the back of the cab and directed him towards the main Leicester cemetery not far away.

I didn't tell him that I wanted the Jewish section. "Better safe than sorry" had always been my motto.

I didn't tell him that I wanted the Jewish section. "Better safe than sorry" had always been my mottoFor some reason our section had never been labeled, even long before the newest wave of anti-Semitism reared its head. Maybe it was assumed that in such a small community everyone would know where the cemetery was without being told. Nowadays the synagogue's website had a clear map that could be downloaded, directing out-of-town visitors to the secluded corner.

I just told the driver to park the cab along one of the well-manicured paths and wait – I would be about half an hour, I told him, as I was visiting family graves.

As I walked up the sheltered path towards the Jewish section, I was comfortable and at ease. I was no stranger to this tranquil corner. I made this journey at least once a year when I come from Jerusalem to visit my mother in London.

It was all that remained of my connection to this busy, industrial Midlands city where I had lived throughout my happy childhood until I had realized that there was no future for a religious teenager in a small, mostly non-religious community.

From here I had gone directly to Israel, a product of the Six Day War awakening that so many slumbering Jews felt.

Now, many years on, a mother and grandmother, blessed with the opportunity to raise a family in Jerusalem, I appreciated and marveled at what it must have taken my parents to bring up four religious daughters in the post-war years in such a small community.

I walked over to my grandparents' graves in the older section of the cemetery. Few children were blessed with two sets of German-born grandparents after the Holocaust, but that was something I never really appreciated when I was young, and the Holocaust was rarely spoken of. My father's parents had sent him away to Holland, where he later left for England, and they had followed soon afterwards, thankfully not waiting until it was too late.

I said some psalms at their graves and then went over to my father.

When he had died, 33 years ago, I had one son, his first grandson, and was eight months pregnant with my first daughter.

I had devised my own personal customOn every visit to his grave I would tell him about his growing family. There is a custom to put a stone on the grave, but I had devised my own personal custom, and I put a stone on for each one of his grandchildren, and now also great-grandchildren, naming each one as I did so. Thank G‑d the number of stones I now have to find grows every year, and just to check I haven't forgotten anyone, I count them at the end.

This time as usual I started putting the stones down. At the end I counted them…but there was one too many. I counted again…still the same. So I went through them again, naming each stone, and then counted — but still the same result — one too many.

I suddenly realized the futility of my repetitious behavior. The cab meter was ticking, and all I was doing was counting stones. So I got up and left.

When I returned home to Jerusalem, one of the first calls I had was from my daughter. "Mum, we have some nice news to tell you…"

I couldn't help but laugh. Suddenly it all made sense. All the time I thought I was the one bringing news of the family to my father — when he was actually trying to give me a hint about the happy news that awaited me at home.