I proceeded to do exactly that through the rest of our sheva brachos, much to Avi’s dismay. In that first week of our marriage, we had many arguments about just exactly how late we needed to be, and I seethed at him and his family for being so obnoxiously uptight. His parents and siblings were visibly stressed every time we showed up late, and when we met them for brunch 15 minutes later than planned, the silence lasted so long, I began to fear his mother would never speak to me again.

Sheva brachos ended, and life began. Avi went off to yeshivah, and I began to work. Mornings would find Avi calmly chewing on his breakfast after catching an early Shacharis, while I dashed in and out of rooms, locating items, stuffing them into my bag, and racing across the street, often narrowly avoiding being hit by a taxi, only to miss my 7:40 bus. I would arrive at work ten minutes late, starving, exhausted, and unfocused.

In the evenings, Avi and I’d sometimes go out to eat together. Whereas I wanted to stay at the restaurant until it was almost closed — basking in the dim lighting, enjoying the murmurs of other diners speaking, and the soft music piped through the speakers, sipping one last drink and enjoying dessert — Avi preferred meals that were short and sweet. During dinner, he would constantly glance down at his watch to check the time.

With each glance, I felt a small stab in my heart. Is it so painful for him to spend time with his wife?

I called him out on it, and he explained that he was stressed because if we stayed out too late, we wouldn’t get home with enough time to relax and unwind. He also wanted both of us to get to bed early enough to sleep long enough to feel refreshed the next day. Plus, he was worried I’d be late to work again. His response only increased my frustration: Now I felt micromanaged and resentful, too.

One Motzaei Shabbos, I decided to attend a Neshei Melaveh Malkah. Avi remained at home, happy that I was starting to connect with the women of the kollel. I assured him that I probably wouldn’t hang around for too long, as I wasn’t so comfortable with these events just yet. “I shouldn’t be back later than 10:30 p.m.,” I said.

When I arrived at the event, I turned my phone on silent so as not to disturb the presentation. Afterwards, people chatted, but I wasn’t interested, and besides, it was almost 10:30 p.m. “Leaving in a minute,” I texted my husband, proud that I’d be on time for once.

I walked home with a woman who lived nearby, and we began to talk. As I had done throughout my teen years and in seminary, I stood in the street, sharing my entire life and bonding with this new friend.

In the back of my mind, I knew I should call my husband and let him know I was almost home, but I didn’t know how to find a gap in the conversation and use it to check my phone. I felt awkward and uneasy, but reassured myself that the conversation was worth it.

Finally, the woman checked her phone and panicked. “Sorry, I didn’t realize how late it was!” she said as she dashed off. I stood there in the street alone, overcome with a sinking feeling that I should have been stronger and done that myself, and sooner. It’s probably only 10:45 p.m., I reassured myself, holding my breath as I pulled my phone out of my bag and glanced at the screen:

Hubby: 3 missed calls

Hubby: where r u?

Hubby: r u ok?

Hubby: hey please let me know where u r I am getting worried

It was 11:35 p.m.

I gulped. Nervously, I called Avi back.

“Where were you? You told me you would be home at 10:30! I was so worried!” he berated me.

Instantly, I felt a surge of child-like defiance. “I didn’t mean literally 10:30. I meant whenever it was over. Anyways, I left the Melaveh Malkah before 10:30, like I said, and I just got held up speaking to someone. We’re literally around the block from our apartment! Besides, you’re not my mother — you don’t have to worry about me!”

“But I do worry about you. I’m your husband, and I appreciate it when you tell me where you are.”

I angrily called my mentor, who picked up despite the late hour. She encouraged me to try to respect my husband and to keep to my commitments, but I struggled and felt even more micromanaged.

It took a long time for us to forgive each other for that incident. Avi felt disrespected and betrayed, while I was incredulous that he didn’t know how to stay calm when his adult wife didn’t answer the phone after an hour. Conversely, he was upset that if the roles had been reversed, I wouldn’t have been worried.

Our different upbringings and our very different concepts of time often left us both feeling angry, hurt, and confused.

Slowly though, we began to communicate and help each other understand our needs.

“Better you tell me that you’re three hours late than keep me waiting all that time,” my husband told me on one occasion.

“But to me, that’s shameful,” I said. “I’d rather try my best to get there on time, but to admit that I’m running late is the worst thing, you know?”

“So, you’d rather keep others waiting than admit you’re running late?” My husband was appalled.

I’d never thought of it that way before, and I could see his point. I committed to updating him, even though it felt strange and awkward.

“Running 20 minutes late,” I texted him one day.

“Great, I’ll stay in yeshivah longer,” he responded.

“And another 20 minutes,” I replied, blushing.

“That’s okay. When will you actually be home?”

I didn’t know. He called to coach me through it. My rough estimation, which I spat out as quickly as possible to mollify him, was totally off. “You aren’t factoring in how much time it takes to get on and off the bus, walk into the house, get changed, and walk out again,” he explained.

“But it takes me like two minutes to get ready!” I protested.

“Really?” He laughed. “Why don’t you time yourself?”

I was determined to meet his challenge, and was shocked when even my best effort at speeding left me at the 15-minute mark.

Slowly, with his coaching and acceptance, and constant communication on both our parts, I began to accurately estimate how long things would take me, to calculate how much time I needed, and to communicate that to others around me.

In return, my husband began to trust that I was doing the best I could, and to learn to stay calm for at least a few minutes if I hadn’t shown up when I’d said I would.

Once, Avi revealed that when we were dating and I’d call him to let him know I’d be “ten” (more like 20) minutes late to our dates, he’d already been waiting for 15 minutes.

“So, you were there 30 minutes early?” I gasped.

“No, I was waiting there sometimes for 45 minutes,” he said. I felt terrible. I really hadn’t realized that my poor time management had affected him so much.

Over the next year, I became more and more effective at managing my time. Of course, it was still a struggle. It didn’t come naturally because I’d grown up in a family that was incapable of sticking to a time commitment. When my parents told us kids that we’d be leaving on our annual road trip at 10:00 a.m., we’d laugh and assume that meant 12:30 or 1:00 p.m., at the earliest. So when my husband told me what time he’d show up, I usually adjusted it according to this flawed math.

Slowly, I got better at analyzing the numbers and being realistic with myself.

One morning before a flight, instead of procrastinating the packing and preparation, I decided to do everything early. Generally, my fear has always been: If I start on time and finish early, what will I do with that extra time? (Note to self: nothing, there’s always more to do.)

But I pushed it aside and, knowing my husband gets stressed before a flight, decided to be a good wife and take some initiative. I packed our suitcases, made breakfast, and prepared lunch. By the time I was done, my husband was still out learning and… there was actually nothing to do.

The suitcases were stacked neatly in a corner, our backpacks were zipped, and our passports and documents were carefully put away in my handbag. Instead of rushing anxiously to the airport, with the luggage packed in a haphazard mess, I felt like I’d created an island of serenity and calm. The feeling was surreal.

But now I had nothing to do.

I paused, wondering what to do with my newfound spare time.

What have I always wanted to do but never got around to?

Drawing, painting, talking on the phone, writing — several things came to mind. The things I always say I want to do, but never set aside the time for. Now, I had the time.

I sat down on the neatly made bed and pulled out my laptop from its carefully zippered case, and after a moment’s thought, feeling terribly proud of myself, I opened a new document and began to write this story.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 850)