Would my mother ever be proud of my daughter — or me?

T

he shadchan, Mrs. Zieg, sidled over to where I was sitting. “I always tell my husband it’s easiest to make a shidduch when the kallah’s mother is at this stage.” At “this,” she gestured toward my chair. “Her nerves are so frazzled and she’s so physically and emotionally exhausted, she just says yes!”

Genius.

But seriously, what was I thinking when I said yes? I’d just told Pinny, “I can’t deal with the shadchan’s phone calls on top of everything. If Ezriel Steinbuch checks out, just let them meet.”

So there was no one to blame but myself for sitting on a chair at my oldest daughter’s vort. Doing a l’chayim and vort combo wasn’t my preferred way of celebrating either. But when every day literally counts, you do things you never imagined possible.

“So you’re trying to say you fooled me into saying yes?” I asked Mrs. Zieg.

“Nah!” She waved her hand. “This shidduch would’ve happened anyway. I’m telling you, like a puzzle, like a custom-made pair of gloves.”

Was there even such a thing?

“Look at them. Gems,” Mrs. Zieg continued. “Why wait? Boys like these are one in a million. Or in this case, one in a billion.”

I thought so, too. The two gems were glowing next to the flowers as the cameras went flashing. Bless my next daughter, Yitty, for remembering to bring the camera and for taking pictures. Because some day in the future, it would probably matter to me.

“Baila, you’re sitting, good. Do you need a cup of water?” My mother walked over to my seat of honor, her face set in that take-charge mode. “Don’t worry about the guests, I’ll take care of them. You sit.”

I didn’t need water. I was drunk with happiness watching Temmy flounce from person to person with that charming smile of hers. I was so happy, I could almost dance.

Almost.

Her shvigger-to-be linked arms with her and took her to a circle of her family, loudly commenting, “She is as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside.” Temmy’s cocktail-length cream dress fit her like a glove. A custom-made glove.

“Why is she dressed so over-the-top fancy?” my mother had shout-whispered as soon as she’d come to help with the setting up. “Aren’t you afraid of an ayin hara?” That was the closest thing to a compliment; it meant that at least there was reason for ayin hara.