She watched her friends’ chat blow up as the girls all compared the Yom Tov wardrobes they’d purchased in the summer.

Literally had to pay a woman to give me the last size 6. Cost me triple but totally worth it.

I have PTSD from last year, I sent Jeanine instead. The woman actually has good taste.

Someone said there’s a line out the door at Hosiery Haven, who would wait til now?

She imagined texting back what she was doing.

Omigosh, so fun. I’ve been on my feet for seven hours straight slicing and dicing and peeling and sauteeing, and I laugh at how I used to claim credit for cooking yontif when it was Vanessa who peeled and chopped everything, and I just spiced things and put them into pans, and honestly, girlies, none of you have ever really cooked a yontif meal. But please, send me pix of your girls’ dresses, they sound gorg

Ha, the day that Libby Frankel broke Whatsapp.

Or she could just ignore everyone.

She washed her hands for the 17th time that hour, turned on the oven timer, and wandered out of the kitchen for a much-needed break.

Was there something wrong with her? Wasn’t cooking her own Yom Tov meals one of those things that were meant to bring her fulfillment and joy? Why did she feel empty inside?

She fell onto the couch in the den. Her feet hurt. The den was the one room in the house that wasn’t picture-perfect, and she’d always liked it like that. Deep squishy couches, bean bags, and bookshelves jammed with books and old albums.

It was a trendy mess and it always made her smile. She stood up, stretched, and went to stand in front of the albums.

The kugels would be done in 37 minutes. Just enough time for a little trip down memory lane.

She ran her fingers along the albums, still smiling. No one made albums anymore. She pulled out a deep brown leather one with the year 2008 neatly labeled along the side.

2008. That was the year she’d returned home from sem, landed her first substitute job, and attended night college. A lot going on, but she remembered feeling happy, confident, on top of the world.

She flipped it open, ready to cringe.

“Omigosh,” she breathed. She looked…  trendy. She squinted. She did, right? It wasn’t just that she had been 19? Nope, her first analysis had been correct: Poor, ordinary Libby Markowitz looked really put-together.

“How’d I do that?” she mused aloud.

She flipped through some more pages. She remembered her family finances; there was barely enough for the rent, much less for nice things. But ohhh, the gold sweater. A Loehmann’s find. And those boots were from Lord and Taylor’s end-of-season clearance. This was half mortifying — the styles back then were fashion-crime worthy — half fascinating,

She flipped faster, a hundred different Libbys smiled at her from hundreds of different moments and memories.

She dropped the album, something warm and fuzzy suddenly spreading through her bloodstream.

Shopping for a bargain… the thrill of the find, the rush of the chase, the long walks around shopping malls and department stores… yes, she remembered how it was done… Sooner or later, history repeats itself.

At least she hoped she did.

Tekiahhh. Shevarim Teruah….

Libby swayed back and forth, eyes closed tightly.

So much. So very much was uncertain and unknown about her family’s future. “Please, Hashem,” she whispered. “Please give us what we need, and we’ll use it to serve You. Please. Please!”

She thought of Dassi, still in treatment, Menashe and the children spending Yom Tov with her parents, and whispered a fervent plea for her health and stability.

One last tekiah gedolah, the sound stretched, an entreaty, a child begging for a lollypop, and then silence.

Libby blinked, the shul sprang back into focus. The gabbai waved all the women out of the hallway. Libby grabbed her littles’ hands and shepherded them into the courtyard.

Faigy Meyers was there, grinning. “Why am I surprised? Your kids look like they just walked out of the European Princess catalog.”

Libby smothered a smile. Yeah, all her kids’ outfits put together didn’t cost the amount of one dress in European Princess. She should know; she’d purchased their Seder outfits last year from the boutique.

Faigy lowered her voice. “I don’t know what to do, Libby. My mother-in-law wants to do photos on Chol Hamoed, but Nachi’s transitioning at work, and I can’t afford to just walk into a boutique.”

“Faigy,” she said lightly, “I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”

Motzaei Rosh Hashanah brought five loads of laundry and some revelations.

“I might be terrible at house flipping,” Akiva said conversationally, handing her the detergent.

“I might want to start a clothing business,” she said in the same tone.

The two of them looked at each other and started laughing.

The new year might be off to an uncertain start, but at least they were still laughing.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 986)