Mendy calls me as soon as he drops Avrumi off, so I’ve already gotten an update by the time Avrumi calls me that night. The car ride was impossibly long, and then he had to find his room and his closet has no hanging space — but baruch Hashem, he sounds great, he seems to like his roommates even if he doesn’t know much about them, the rebbeim seem nice, his dorm counselor is “chilled.”

Um, yay?

Everything he says leaves me with around ten follow-up questions, but I remind myself that knowing his roommates’ mothers’ name will not help, only tefillos will. But I can’t help the worry in the pit of my stomach. Will I ever feel calm and matter-of-fact about him dorming? Like, oh yeah, Avrumi’s in yeshivah, he’ll be back Pesach, pass the salt. Im yirtzeh Hashem he should just be happy. And safe. Very very safe.

Malkie clicks in three times during our conversation; I call her back once Avrumi promises he’s going to wait in line for the shower. Again, I can only hope for the best.

“I’m saaaaad,” I moan to my big sister, plopping onto a barstool dejectedly.

She cracks up. “Um, get used to it, sweetheart. Kids leave the nest, Shaindy. It’s good. Healthy. It’s why we taught them how to use forks and knives and buses. Speaking of leaving the nest, the countdown is at seventeen days.”

I pick at some mozzarella from the countertop. “Seventeen days? No!”

Malkie’s eldest, Tammy, is engaged to a sweetheart of a boy, and we are all extremely excited for the family’s first grandchild’s wedding.

She sounds suddenly tired. “Yup. So listen, about Shabbos sheva brachos, I got your family three rooms, okay? And Erev Shabbos there’ll be lunch and then before lighting there’ll be toameha, so try to be there on time, I don’t want you to miss out.”

“I see our reputation for being late precedes us, eh?” I needle Malkie.

“I didn’t say anything,” she protests. “Did you finish up with the seamstress yet?”

We launch into our umpteenth discussion about what everyone is wearing and how ready it is or isn’t.

But at least all of the wedding planning is a distraction from Avrumi. Shopping and hair appointments and wedding clothing and coordinating outfits for a hotel Shabbos sheva brachos… it’s been my summer project these past couple of months, but I still have plenty to do. The kids have like six outfits for Shabbos each and I have, well, zero. Story of mothers everywhere. At least I have my gown. That was a whole saga; Malkie changed the color on us. Ma was not amused by that one. Ah, the privileges of being the oldest. I’m sure by the time I make my first wedding, I’ll be lucky if people come in Shabbos clothing.

I’M laying out back-to-school outfits, thinking how easy it is to get everything ready the night before, and how I’m for sure going to start doing this every single night — yes, I made myself laugh at that one — when Avrumi calls. He’s been great about calling once a day, bless his little soul, and I’ve been working on keeping my voice super chill instead of hyper-focused and hyperventilating every time we speak.

“Vrums, how’s it going, sweetheart? Just getting the girls’ stuff ready for school. Can you believe they’re only starting now?” I smooth out pleated skirts and place crisp shoeboxes on top of each pile.

“It’s not so fair that they got more vacation, but I’m happy I’m here,” he says seriously.

Omigosh, he’s cute.

“Yes, we also think it’s not so fair that everyone was home until now,” I say, and he laughs.

Why do I feel like I’m having a conversation with an adult? We talk about his rebbeim and the guys and how the food is decent, but he misses my meatballs. No, Shaindy, you cannot cry because your son remembers your meatballs.

I wipe away a tear and remind him about the chasunah. I wish we could pick him up from Baltimore, but it doesn’t make sense, and we have cousins who are more than happy to take him along.

“Yeah, Ma, I know. Great. I’m excited to see Elter Zeidy.”

My heart melts. Avrumi and my grandfather have always had a special relationship; Avrumi is the eldest great-grandson, named for Zeidy’s father.

“Yes! And then on Shabbos, you can catch him all up about yeshivah life.”

“Yeah, for sure, sounds great.” He suddenly sounds distant.

Oh, this is not boding well. Avrumi is an avoider. When he’s not happy about something, he just gets more and more distant, until he’s basically a speck in the sky.

“Vrums? Everything okay?” I hold my breath, silently begging him to share what’s going on his mind.

“Yeah, yeah. Just a bunch of guys are waiting for the phone.”

Really. A bunch of guys are waiting to speak to their mothers before supper instead of stocking up at the canteen and throwing a basketball around. Interesting.

“Okay, cutie, love you.” I drag out the words, hoping he’ll suddenly tell me what’s wrong.

“Ya, you, too,” he mutters. Chas v’shalom he say, “I love you” in front of the guys….

But my sinking feeling proves to be prophetic just the next morning.

Mendy is busy mixing cinnamon into his oatmeal — he’s a creature of habit — when he clears his throat.

I squint up at him from my coffee mug — no breakfast for me yet, I work on my coffee for at least two hours — and he says in a hearty voice, “So I was speaking to Avrumi last night….”

Here we go. Whatever was causing my son to float away like a paper boat while we spoke, I’m about to hear all about it.

“He’s looking forward to seeing us all at the chasunah. And he even agreed to wear the teal tie, after much cajoling, and okay, major bribery.”

“Matching to you,” I remind him helpfully.

He grimaces. “Yes, thanks. So he’s very excited. But about Shabbos sheva brachos… he really doesn’t want to miss Shabbos in yeshivah. He said no one leaves for a cousin’s simchah, the yeshivah won’t be happy, his rebbeim are all there, and he really doesn’t want to miss out on that. If he was third-year or something, I’d push it, but he’s new, he’s still getting used to it, he doesn’t want to stand out or rock the boat.”
I’m so shocked, I spill my coffee.

“Mendy,” I cut in, very calmly, not moving to clean up the spreading brown puddle. “I hope you told him absolutely not. I hope you explained that this is the first Shabbos sheva brachos in the family, and that my parents are so looking forward to spending time with him, not to mention ninety-year-old Zeidy Baruch is flying from Florida. There are Erev Shabbos lunches and cousin rooming, and all sorts of things, and no, absolutely not, he is not missing it. The yeshivah will understand, and once he’s there, he’ll really enjoy it.”

Mendy is making faces, so I’m assuming he did not say any of these very wise things.

“So actually, the thing is that I told him I absolutely heard his point and I would discuss it with you.”

“Great,” I said, rising to my feet to get a shmatteh at last. “Consider it discussed. Hooray. We have discussed it and we have nixed it, now, back to reality—”

“Shaindy.”

“Mendy.”

“I told him we’d think about it.”

“Fine!” I take a deep breath and rub my forehead to ward off an impending migraine. “Fine. Let me feel it out with Malkie and my parents.”

“Thanks, Shaindy. You’re a good mother.”

Whatever. I don’t feel like a good mother. I feel like an annoyed one. Although the two can very easily coexist.

Malkie sounds disappointed when we speak but seems okay with it, telling me Avrumi should do what’s best for him; she understands how hard it is to start in a new place. She’s very sweet to even have an opinion when the wedding’s next week.

But my parents are not as easygoing. “What? Avrumi won’t be there? But we wanted to catch up and hear all about the yeshivah,” my mother says plaintively. “Tatty was so excited to hear all about his rebbeim and chavrusas. And what about Zeidy? You know how much he loves Avrumi.”

I sigh; I can definitely feel a migraine coming on. “I know, Ma. I know. ’Kay, I’ll keep you posted.”

But later that night, we get a recorded phone call from the yeshivah, thanking the parents for their wonderful boys, and reminding us that chinuch is a shutfus that requires all partners to pitch in. And I speak to Avrumi, and hear about his roommates and his friends, and realize that slowly but surely he is finding his footing in yeshivah, and I need to allow him to do this. And so even though every one of my bones is screaming in protest, I told Avrumi it was okay if he missed the Shabbos sheva brachos. I have no idea if I made the right choice. They say growing up brings hard choices, but I never had to choose between my family and my son before. It was a hard one, almost too hard.

“What a beautiful wedding, it was really a dream. I can’t believe we’re all together now.” Ma sniffs. “Well, almost all.”

I try not to roll my eyes.

“The last time was at Gershon’s aufruf,” she continues.

I know she’s not trying to hurt me, she’s just as disappointed as I am, but doesn’t she realize that the person this is hardest on is me?

I stalk off to get another molten lava cake from the Viennese table. Chocolate therapy. It’s a real thing.

Zeidy Baruch doesn’t say anything, of course, but in a way, his silence is even harder. The guilt is choking me.

After Shalosh Seudos, before Maariv, there’s an impromptu breakout of dancing. I watch the boys lift the chassan in the air and my heart aches. In the swirl of black hats and jackets, all I can see is the one who’s not here.

Shouldn’t Avrumi be here, dancing with his cousins, giving my parents nachas?

Had I really made the right choice?

Because standing here, missing him, picturing him alongside all of his cousins, it certainly doesn’t feel like it.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 912)