Eva nodded at a fellow walker coming in the opposite direction. She was on schedule, they crossed at the same spot every day, just as Winston Towers came into view on her right.

“You have my word.”

“Fine. Send me her number.”

“You’re a saint. How’s it going with Ephraim and Shira?”

“You promised not to talk.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“That I am.” Eva confirmed.

They both laughed, and continued walking, Eva’s pace picking up as the memories flooded in. She hadn’t picked up a cello in over 30 years, it was too late for her. But maybe someone else could finally have the high-level instruction she’d lost out on.

You’re invited! The invitation on Shira’s phone read. Please join our frum Northwestern family for a Labor Day BBQ.

Cute, she thought. Orientation came before Labor Day, so Ephraim would probably already know everyone by then. It seemed like he knew everyone and their first cousin already.

Shira looked bleakly at the gauzy neutrals that were the den. She usually liked Ephraim’s social ease, but she wasn’t sure today. “Your resentments are your insecurities,” Rebecca Tendler had shared on her marriage podcast. Shira checked herself, breathed deeply, then took a sip of coffee and closed her eyes.

With her eyes shut and the sun filtering in at just the right angle, if she didn’t breathe and smell the linen diffuser on the coffee table, she could almost pretend she was in her Ramat Eshkol apartment. She missed it.

They weren’t supposed to be here, in Chicago. A year and a half ago, Ephraim had made a grand announcement after supper that he was ready to study for the LSATs. He’d said something about law when they dated, so she wasn’t surprised. But she always viewed it more as a backburner, a back pocket sort of thing. She figured he’d wait before doing anything with his scores.

But then Ephraim applied to schools right away. Even then, she was okay with Brooklyn or Lakewood, maybe he’d get into Columbia, UPenn, Cardozo… worst case, Fordham. Ephraim had applied to Northwestern on a whim because it was in Chicago. And that was the only place he was accepted.

They’d never even discussed alternatives.

Shira opened her eyes to reality. Looking forward! she texted the chat. Someone definitely said something once about projecting emotions you want to convey, even if you don’t feel them right away. Wait, did that make sense? Too late.

Someone texted back thumbs up and hearts. That worked.

It was too quiet; where were Racheli and Dovi? Shira slowly hoisted herself from the couch and looked around.

A giggle from the kitchen. Hopefully there hadn’t been too much damage.

In the kitchen, Shira found her two kids sitting at the breakfast bar, half-sipping, half-blowing, bubbles of chocolate milk. Clarissa, the housekeeper, was near the fridge laughing. Shira’s eyes flitted around the room. Was her mother-in-law around?

She hadn’t quite figured out how her mother-in-law was taking it all; did she love or hate having them there? Sometimes she seemed surprised when she saw them, like she’d forgotten they were there, other times she doted on them, like at the concert.

“Bobby!” Racheli called.

Shira turned. Her mother-in-law had just entered. There was chocolate milk all over the counter from where the kids’ “bubbles” had escaped their cups. The mess didn’t concern Shira, but she couldn’t quite gauge her mother-in-law’s reaction.

“Hi, Cheli,” her mother-in-law smiled.

“Look, Bobby,” Racheli stood on the stool to wave and show Bobby her precious chocolate milk.

She slipped, taking the milk, cup, spoon, and straw with her. A millisecond of pause and the inconsolable cries erupted.

Shira had anticipated the fall as soon as Racheli started to rise in her seat, and she was already at her side, caressing and comforting her, as well as doing a quick survey for damage. All seemed fine, phew.

Clarissa was on the move, wiping down the counter, stool, floor, and Racheli. Her mother-in-law, after a perfunctory “Are you okay?” had her head cocked to the side looking at Racheli.

“Is she tall for her age?”

Tall? Well, she was in the 90th percentile, but was that a normal question under the circumstances? People respond to trauma differently; she’d heard that on so many podcasts. Was her mother-in-law shaken by the fall? Was a grandchild falling a trauma?

“Yeah, she’s pretty tall,” Shira answered.

“Just what I thought,” her mother-in-law continued. “Perfect age and height.”

Would she clue her in or was she supposed to guess? Another thing she hadn’t figured out with her mother-in-law.

Silence.

“For what?” Shira finally asked.

“To play the cello. I think I may have a top-notch teacher for Racheli, I just have to confirm a few things.”

Weird. Shira’s gut grumbled. She wished Ephraim was there so she could make “save us” faces. But he wasn’t home, and he didn’t seem to be getting Shira’s face messaging these past few days. He was too busy being “home.”

“What’s the cello again?” Shira asked, wanting to confirm what she thought she knew.

“It’s the large upright violin.”

“Right.” Shira knew that.

Her stomach surged, and she lurched to the pantry to find crackers to appease it. Why would her mother-in-law want Racheli to play a cello of all things? Hardly anyone even knew what it was. Did it sound pretty? Where was this even coming from?

Her mother-in-law was typing on her phone.

“Here,” she said, shoving her phone into Shira’s view.

It was a video of a middle-aged Asian man playing what must be the cello. Was her mother-in-law kidding? It was huge, and the song the guy was playing was weird.

“Bach, Cello Suites. A classic,” her mother-in-law said, her voice wistful.

Shira felt her fingers tingle and cheeks flush. Was she serious? Deciding on an instrument, a teacher, without even consulting her, just announcing it as if it was a given. Even Ephraim would get that his mother had gone too far.

And yet Shira found herself saying, “This is beautiful. Tell me about the teacher.”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 798)