“But what if he wants his wife to be everything?” Atara said. “I think that’s what he wants”

“Thanks so much for coming by. I’m just going to start on the meatballs for supper, you can have a seat,” Aliza said as she led Atara to the kitchen.

“You can put your stuff down here,” she added, waving vaguely at the couch that separated the kitchen from the living room area; it was piled with folded laundry.

Atara shrugged and waved her phone. “All I brought,” she said quietly.

Atara slid into the barstool. Yes, Aliza thought, it was the perfect purchase. Meir couldn’t understand it — “There’s a table right here, why would someone want eat at a counter?” — and she wasn’t going to have her kids eat cereal at the “breakfast bar” or whatever you called an awkward slab of something from an early ’90’s kitchen. But the barstool was perfect for when people came by to “help” her cook.

The ground beef was mostly defrosted. Aliza stabbed it with a fork to mash it up. It was harder than she expected.

“How’s it going?” she asked Atara lightly. She wasn’t sure why Atara had asked to come by. She’d had shaychus to Aliza in high school and kept up since, but her life was good — vanilla problems — so Aliza didn’t know her as well as she knew the students who’d reached out often over the years.

“So.” Atara paused and watched Aliza mash the beef. “So,” she tried again. “I’ve been dating this guy. We went out like five times. Everything is great — really. I like him, he likes me, he’s fun and funny, and considerate, and smart, and really everything I ever wanted.”

She paused again; Aliza knew a but was coming.

“And I know this sounds so dumb, but like he’s really into working with kids at risk, and it’s beautiful and genuine and everything. I totally respect that.”

Aliza reached for the cornflake crumbs and started pouring, still waiting.

Atara looked at her, deer-in-headlights moment. “I don’t want that.”

Aliza nodded. “Tell me more,” she prompted.

“I think it’s amazing, don’t get me wrong. But, like, I’m more of a give-money-to-an-organization type. Maybe I’ll stuff your envelopes.”

“I hear,” Aliza said — and she did. She needed Atara to say more, though, both for herself and for Aliza’s understanding. “Tell me more about what you think he wants, and how that’s different from what you want.”

Atara went long-winded with stories he shared of him saving the day, and how she wanted her privacy.

“Did he say anything about what he hoped his home would be like?” Aliza asked.

“No — but it’s expected. Like, that’s the life.”

“It’s what you’re assuming,” Aliza corrected gently. “Can you pass me the salt?” She found that giving people directions about matters other than what they were discussing often let their mind process more. Atara passed the salt, and Aliza measured half a teaspoon studiously even though she was usually an eye-baller.

“You think I should ask him what he thinks, like, for real?” Atara asked.

Aliza let her answer her own question.

“But what if he wants his wife to be everything?” Atara said. “I think that’s what he wants.”

“So you won’t ask him, because you’re scared he’ll confirm what you think?” Aliza probed. “And if he confirms that, yes, he does need a kiruv partner, then you’ll have to let go of your relationship?”

Atara went quiet, then gave a small, “Yes.”

Aliza turned to the cabinet behind her, scooped out the garlic and onion powder, and spiced the meat mixture. Atara watched. Aliza didn’t say anything. This was time for Atara to think.

“Okay,” Atara finally said. “So I have to have a real conversation with him. But what if it’s everything I think it is?”

Aliza gave her the, “there’s no right or wrong, but it’s a choice of competing priorities” bit. Then she guided Atara to run her hands underwater and form perfectly spherical meatballs, a process that a) produced pretty meatballs b) absorbed her attention, allowing her to engage and let her guard down.

The hardest part was over, and the two spent the next 30 minutes shaping the balls, making the sauce, boiling pasta, and cutting up a salad.

What would happen, Aliza didn’t know — that wasn’t her concern. Her job was to redirect and reframe, show her girls that they had the answers within them all along.

Later that night, when she sat alone with Meir watching him eat reheated meatballs, Aliza shared her day. She lingered on Atara.

“It’s such a brachah that I get to do this, I love it. Don’t get me wrong, it can be hard, I never know what will show up, but the sipuk in guiding people to what they kind of already know never gets old.”

She knew she sounded cheesy, but she meant every word.