Sometimes I feel like I’m ten again, a child they expect to behave in predictable ways

I haven’t seen Rus since she robbed me of twenty thousand dollars.

Twenty thousand, if you add all the costs. Three thousand for repairs because I didn’t have collision insurance, weeks of an unreliable car that just wasn’t going to be revived from the dead. Another five hundred for Ubers during that miserable month when I hadn’t come to terms with the fact that my van was a lost cause. Twenty-five hundred for the temporary rental. Fifteen thousand for the used minivan we’d finally gotten to replace it, thanks to predatory interest rates and No. Choice. At all.

And that wasn’t even the full cost. Ma and Ta had chipped in, for my silence. It hadn’t been phrased like that, but it had been implied. Rus has so much going on, Malky. She doesn’t need this on her plate, too.

Right. I’ve been protecting Rus since I turned two. I know the drill.

It’s easier when she’s across the country, when we don’t talk at all except through snatches of interactions by text, but Pesach is for family, the six of us and our kids and Ma and Ta all spread out across a luxurious house in the Catskills. Ma and Ta save up each year for the splurge.

This year, it’s all fixed smiles after the kashering crew is done and everyone slowly begins to fill up the house. We brought most of the food up with us, but Tali and I cook a little extra for the Seder today, taking turns at the stove to mix our semi-decent sauce concoctions. “Ma should be back from the airport soon,” Tali comments, stirring a cranberry mixture that smells almost like chometz. “Rus’s flight was delayed. She said she was sitting in the airport for an extra hour with the kids going out of their minds.”

“Mmm.” It’s all I can think of to say. When I dwell on Rus too much, the unfairness of it all seems to burst from me, and I’m trying to behave.

Tali gives me a hard look. “You’re not going to talk about the car with her, are you?”

“Talk about the car? Me?” I focus on the recipe in front of me, counting out half-cups of almond flour. “Why would I ever mention that to Rus? What does Rus have to do with my car? Except the part where she borrowed it last Pesach, punctured the oil pan, and destroyed the engine beyond repair, I mean.”

“She didn’t know.” Tali elbows me, and extra almond flour sprays from the bag into the bowl. “And she has enough stress. Between her medical stuff and custody arrangements, she’s having a rough time of it. Sometimes, you just have to let it go.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to let it go.” I try not to sound defensive. I always sound a little defensive when it comes to Rus.

Maybe it’s because there’s an age gap between us and my other siblings. Tali is five years older than me, already seven when Rus was born. Moshe and Ari, older than her, were never all that involved in taking care of Rus. And Shaina is a full 12 years older than Rus, nearly parental.

Rus is everyone else’s baby. But she’s my sister, clingy and annoying in childhood, prone to bursting into tears whenever we’d have an argument. Can’t you try to be a little more sensitive? Ma would sigh to me. Rus was always sickly, had celiac and asthma and acute allergies, and I was perpetually the villain.

It didn’t matter that she’d pick fights with me, that she’d take my things and then sob when I took them back. Share, Malky. That she’d ruin my homework. It’s not a big deal, Malky. That she’d whine until I gave up the phone, bother my friends when they were over, argue with me and then run for an arbiter, a parent or older sibling who would inevitably take her side. Stop picking on Rus, Malky.

Anyway. That was childhood. We’re adults now.

So I plaster a smile on my face when the door opens and Rus’s three boys tear into the house in a whirl of uncontrolled energy.

“I call the banister first!”

“Hey, give me that!” I hear the wail of protest from my five-year-old, the stirrings of a fight in the playroom.

Tali raises her voice. “No sliding down the banister!” she orders. If no one stops Rus’s kids, they’ll tear apart the house and cost a fortune in surcharges. Rus certainly isn’t stopping them.

Rus, who greets us with a light, “Hey, Tali. Hey, Malky.” She looks paler this year, a little more frail than usual. Beside her, Ma is giving me a death stare. I can almost feel the don’t talk about the car hovering thick between us. “How’s it going?”

I don’t talk about the car. My words are abrupt, uncomfortable. “It’s fine. You know. These cookies aren’t bad.”

Rus swipes at the batter without washing her hands, takes a lick. “Eh.” She makes a face. “I have much better gluten-free stuff at home. Somehow, making it Pesachdig makes it worse.”

“Really polite, Rus,” I drawl. Adulthood is learning how to smooth my irritated comments, make them sound amused instead of annoyed.

Ma senses it anyway and shoots me a look. “Oh, Rus is just used to these things because of her celiac. She has a more refined palate,” she says before Rus can respond.

Rus doesn’t offer to help with the last few items, of course, even though she’s more of a pro at Pesach cooking than anyone else. She has to catch up, and she wanders out to the patio to find Shaina and our sisters-in-law while Ma returns to cook with us.

“Malky, you’re not going to mention—” Her voice is tense.

“I didn’t say anything about it, did I?” I shoot back.

It’s going to be a long Pesach.