The first time, I got the call on his birthday.

Israel. Four months after the sudden car accident, living in the tiny fourth-floor apartment that was still crowded with him. His seforim still on the crooked shelf, arranged the way he’d left them. His hat and jacket hanging on the hooks in the corner. A tie thrown carelessly over one empty sleeve.

I had just made myself supper — pasta with olive oil — and sat on the couch where we used to play cards on those long Shabbos afternoons after Heshy returned from learning at a nearby shul.

The phone rang.

My mother-in-law’s voice was gentle. “Tova, zeeskeit, we’re thinking of you today. We know it’s hard….”

I was about to thank her, to tell her about how I planned to visit the kever, when:

“—and we wanted you to hear it from us. Dini’s getting engaged.”

“Today?” My voice came out strangely flat. “She’s getting engaged today?”

“I know, it’s so bashert, isn’t it? He would’ve been so happy for her. Tova, you know how involved he was in her shidduchim. Isn’t that beautiful?”

I looked down at the pasta congealing in the bowl on my lap. “Yeah, wonderful,” I heard my voice choke out. “Really wonderful.”

“We knew you’d think so. You’re such a special girl, Tova.”

We hung up, and I sat very still for a few minutes. Then I called my friend Shana because the alternative was sitting alone with oily pasta and the knowledge that everyone was celebrating while I sat in an apartment that was so quiet I could almost hear the electricity flowing through the walls.

“Is that even a thing you’re allowed to do?” I said when she answered. “Get engaged on someone’s birthday? On the birthday of the person who died?” She didn’t have an answer.

I threw out the pasta and went to bed even though it was only 8 p.m. But I couldn’t sleep. I paced the small room, thoughts racing, unable to escape the pain in my heart. My cheeks tingled, the feeling racing through me until every nerve felt alive and burning. I stood by the window and tried to breathe. Ahead of me, all I could see was a dark, endless pit of despair, and I screamed into the silence, into the uncaring echo that had become my life.

I knew that in the morning, I’d put on a pretty outfit, strategically apply my makeup to cover the circles under my eyes, and go to my friend Leah’s apartment. We would spend the day together, and then I would leave right before her husband came… and we’d pretend together that our lives were exactly the same.

I

’m at my in-laws’ scuffed kitchen table at 9 a.m. with a vegetable peeler and a bowl. Cucumbers first. Long green ribbons curl into the bowl. Then tomatoes, peppers, lettuce. My mother-in-law aimlessly opens cabinets and closes them, opens the door to the study and closes it. I don’t think she even remembers what she’s looking for.

The younger girls drift through the house. Nechama is coordinating the outfits, Malky is experimenting with my mother-in-law’s camera, and Suri is eating cereal at the counter.

“Tova!” my mother-in-law says suddenly, as if she’s just noticed me. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

I smile and chop a pepper with more force than strictly necessary.

Tzipporah, my second sister-in-law, arrives at ten with cake boxes stacked in her arms. She maneuvers through the door sideways and tenderly sets her aromatic offerings on the counter. “Chocolate,” she announces. “Four kinds of chocolate cake, and those heaven chocolate mousse cups I made last Pesach.” The girls rush over to exclaim loudly, and I wonder how Tzipporah, who has three kids under the age of five, had the time to bake so much at the last minute.

She drops into the chair across from me, and I see the deep purple rings around her eyes. So that’s how. She picks up a knife and starts slicing a kiwi for the first fruit platter. The kitchen fills with the sound of frenzied preparations, periodic crashes from upstairs where the girls are finalizing their wardrobes, and my mother-in-law’s footsteps as she paces between rooms, her cell phone wedged so tightly under her ear it looks like some kind of native fungus.

By noon, the room is a cross between a war zone and a restaurant. Every counter is covered with peels, platters of vegetables, bowls of salad, and fruit carved into elaborate shapes. My hands smell like pineapple and cheap lavender hand soap.

Chani floats into the room with her hair and makeup done, and everyone stops. Nechama squeals, Malky takes 17 photos, and Suri gushes over the kallah’s hair.

My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Dini: Can’t wait for tonight! When r u coming? Dini, who got engaged four months after Heshy died. Who now has four girls and sends me photos that I look at for too long, wondering what my children would have looked like.

Already here, I text back. Been here since 9.

You’re amazing.

I put my phone face down on the counter.

It was the family photos that terrified me.

For weeks leading up to Dini’s wedding, I’d jerk awake at 3 a.m., imagining the moment. The photographer calling for family pictures and everyone arranging themselves — parents, siblings, Heshy’s older married sister, the new couple — and then someone would notice me standing there and they wouldn’t know what to do with me.

The daughter-in-law that was.

Okay, now just the immediate family and their spouses.

And they’d all pose: Rochi and Dovid, all Heshy’s younger sisters.

Just the siblings with children.

Just the parents with their married children.

Who’s she? the photographer would say, pointing at me. Every configuration would require an explanation. A decision to see if I counted.

Three weeks before the wedding, I called Dini.

“I’m not joining any pictures at your wedding,” I blurted, less than tactfully. “I really don’t think you’ll want me in your wedding album. In a few years I’m going to be a random stranger to you. We won’t know each other. So it’s better if I’m not in the pictures.”

Silence. Then: “Okay, I guess.”

At the wedding itself, I sat in the front for the chuppah. But when they announced family photos, I went to the bathroom and stayed there until it was over, counting the glossy marble tiles on the floor.

Tzipporah found me eventually.

“Oh, hi, Tova. I was looking for you. The first dance is starting in a few minutes.”

I washed my clean hands, touched up my flawless lipstick, and smiled brightly. Then I rejoined Heshy’s family and danced for the rest of the evening, lost in a billow of silk and perfume because I didn’t want to lose myself in memories.

I

t’s late afternoon before I can return to my quiet apartment, but my preparations don’t take nearly as long as Chani’s: a quick shower, pulling on the same blue dress I wore to Dini’s vort, and then to Tzipporah’s. Each time I tell myself I should buy something new, I remember the day I bought the dress in Heshy’s favorite color, and I can’t bring myself to replace it.

My makeup takes a little longer. A thick layer of concealer, because I never sleep well the night before these things. Foundation. Powder. I’m trying to cover the fact that I’ve been up since 5 a.m., and that I cried into my coffee this morning for reasons I don’t want to think about.

Mascara. Lipstick. A toothy smile for the mirror. It looks real enough. I adjust my sheitel, and my rings catch the light. Every few months, another well-meaning shadchan who’s determined to remarry me off asks why I still wear them, and I always brush her off with a flippant answer.

The truth? Without them, people might think I’m divorced. They look at me and do the math: woman in her late twenties, no husband, no kids, and they assume divorce. And I can’t, I can’t let them think that.

These rings are proof that he existed. Proof that I didn’t dream the beautiful almost two years we had together. Proof that I’m not imagining this grief.

I check that my rings are on straight, lightly touch the diamond, and grab my purse. The hall is already filling up when I arrive.

My mother-in-law spots me immediately, rushes over, and grabs my arm.

“Tova! The platters look beautiful, everyone keeps commenting, come, Chani wants photos.” She tugs me toward the front, where the photographer is arranging the family like chess pieces. Chani, stiff and stunning, her nervous chassan beside her, beaming sisters. No more brothers. Heshy was the only boy.

“Immediate family,” the photographer bellows, gesturing. And I know my cue. This is where I disappear to the bathroom or suddenly remember that I left my purse in the car.

“Tova!” My mother-in-law waves me forward. “Come here!”

The photographer looks confused. “And you are…?”

“Family,” my mother-in-law says, but her voice rises at the end of the word, carrying a question, and I hear what she doesn’t say: Kind of. Technically. It’s complicated.

I step forward because refusing would shatter the fragile illusion we’re all trying to hold together.

The photographer counts down. “Three, two, one!” We smile. Flash, click. “Beautiful!” he says. “One more! Everyone, say, ‘mazel tov!’ ” The flash goes off, and then we melt apart. I’m turning away when I hear one of the aunts, standing just behind the photographer, talking to someone else, loudly enough that I catch it:

“Yes, Tova should be in the picture. Heshy’s… wife. Of course she should be.” But she doesn’t talk about Tzipporah or Dini. The fact that she has to say it means everyone knows I don’t belong.

I drop into a chair before my wobbly legs betray me.

At Dini’s wedding, Mrs. Greenbaum, a close family friend, had found me during a lull in the dancing. I was sitting next to Rochi, my married sister-in-law, laughing as she texted her husband on the other side of the mechitzah.

Mrs. Greenbaum plunked into a chair next to me, leaned in way too close, stared at me with gooey brown eyes, and said: “The next simchah will be yours, im yirtzeh Hashem.”

That wasn’t what I’d expected. “What?”

“The next engagement. The next wedding.” She patted my hand maternally. “Don’t worry, dear. Your time will come. You’re so young, you still have your whole life ahead of you.”

I mumbled something polite and excused myself, escaping to the bathroom where I cried until the next dance.

I remember thinking, Who said I even want to get married again? Why doesn’t anyone ask me what I want?

Today, seven years and two engagements later, most of the guests don’t even know who I am, and it might be better that way. I think.

But Mrs. Greenbaum remembers.

“Tova, what a lovely sheitel!” she says as she bears down on us. Then she turns to Malky, my next sister-in-law. “And here’s the kallah meidel fresh from seminary!” Malky giggles. “Im yirtzeh Hashem by you!” she trumpets, while Malky ducks her head and smiles shyly.

For me, there’s no mention of weddings. No “im yirtzeh Hashem by you.” No reminder that my time is coming. Just compliments about my sheitel.

Have you given up on me? I want to ask Mrs. Greenbaum. Seven years ago, you promised me the next simchah would be mine, and here we are, two engagements later, and you don’t even mention it anymore. When did you decide I was beyond hope?

But I don’t say any of this. I watch Mrs. Greenbaum disappear into the crowd, and wonder why it hurts that she stopped saying the thing that used to hurt.

WE

wander toward the gorgeously set buffet at the other end of the room, admiring the huge bouquet from Chani’s chassan.

Tzipporah’s chocolate cakes are prominently displayed, and she really has a gift. Each cake is glossier and more perfect than the last. Dark chocolate ganache drips down sleek chocolate icing, while chocolate shavings glisten in perfect curlicues. Her cakes look like they came from a bakery. Nearby, looking almost apologetic, are my mini lemon tarts. The deep yellow curd, lightly dusted with powdered sugar, looks too simple.

A woman in a forest-green dress cuts herself a slice of the triple chocolate confection.

“This looks incredible,” she tells a rail-thin friend in blue (whose plate is adorned only with a few slices of kiwi). They take their plates and move away, while the lemon tarts sit untouched.

Heshy loved chocolate. And for other people, Heshy was chocolate. Everyone loved him. He walked into rooms, and people gravitated toward him. He made friends everywhere: on the street, in shul, at the grocery store. The cashier at the makolet knew him by name. All his sisters claimed to be his closest sibling. And in a way, they were right.

I’m not like that. I’m lemon. Tart, a little more complicated, an acquired taste for some. I have to work at relationships, have to prove myself, have to make sure people know I’m worth keeping around.

With Heshy’s family, I’ve been proving it for seven years.

I already lost one person. Why should I lose everyone else? That’s what I told myself at Dini’s wedding, when I decided to stay involved, to stay connected to his family. If I lost Heshy and also my in-laws, what would be left of my marriage?

But sometimes, I wonder. If the family is holding on to me because they’re holding on to him, and I’m holding on to them for the same reason, are we all just pretending?

When I sat shivah in Israel, Heshy’s familY FLEW IN FROM NEW YORK. They were the ones who sat with me, who cried with me, who could say, “Remember when Heshy…” and laugh through tears.

My parents came, too, of course. They held my hand and said they were so sorry for my loss. But they didn’t really know him. We got married and moved to Israel not long after. Both of us longed for the real kollel life in the holiness of Eretz Yisrael. Both of us dreamed of a tiny apartment saturated with Torah. And for the tiniest slice of time, we lived in our dreams.

Until a careless driver ended everything.

My parents were supportive, but they’d only met Heshy a few times. It wasn’t enough for them to understand.

When I tried to talk about him at shivah, they nodded sympathetically.

“We’re so sorry, sweetheart,” they said. But they didn’t miss him. They couldn’t finish my sentences with memories. They couldn’t tell me stories I’d never heard. His family could.

We needed each other — them to keep a piece of him alive, me to have proof that he existed. But the proof is getting harder to see. Time changes the sharpness of my sadness, and I don’t think about Heshy every minute the way I used to.

And that frightens me more than anything.

I watch husbands and wives seek each other out as the vort winds down, and I feel empty. All that’s left are wilted flowers, the tired remains of the fruit platters I spent hours arranging, and overflowing mounds of chocolate-smeared paper plates.

I help my in-laws with the cleanup, wish everyone mazel tov, gather up my things, and leave. It’s drizzling lightly, and the only sound in my car is the soft swish of the windshield wipers.

T

he next day, Suri appears at my door with a gift bag.

“Ma wanted me to drop this off,” she says. She reminds me of Chani at that age, of Heshy’s baby sister who used to skip rope in the street.

“Thanks, Suri.” When she leaves, I close the door and look inside the bag. It’s a glossy box of expensive chocolates, the kind with gold foil wrapping that you give to fancy hosts when you’re invited for a Shabbos meal. And tucked underneath is a gift voucher for a local costume jewelry store. Then I notice the note in my mother-in-law’s round, careful handwriting.

Tova, we couldn’t have done it without you. You’re such a special girl. Thank you for everything. Love, Ma.

I read it three times. Special girl. Not daughter. Not family. Special girl. The kind of thing you say to a friend. I think about Tzipporah, who baked those gorgeous chocolate cakes for Chani’s vort. Did she get chocolates? Did she get a thank-you note? Or is it only people like me — family-not-family — who get gifts?

I hide the chocolates in my cabinet and put the voucher deep in a drawer I rarely use. Then I sit on my couch in my too-quiet house and I don’t cry.

That night I head for the kitchen. The lemon tart I reserved for Shabbos, when I was making those miniatures for the vort, is still there. I cut myself a slice and sit at my small table.

The first bite is sharp and bright and makes my mouth pucker. Then the sweetness comes, but it’s not like the easy sweetness of chocolate. It’s the kind of sweetness you have to work for.

Chocolate is quick comfort. But lemon doesn’t lie.

And I finally taste the truth.

I’m terrified.

Terrified that if I stop being part of Heshy’s family, I’ll disappear. Terrified that if I stop helping, they’ll forget me. But I’m also terrified of building a life that doesn’t include them. Of remarrying, maybe, and having my own family, and drifting away until I’m only sending his family Rosh Hashanah cards once a year.

I’m terrified of staying where I am. Terrified of moving on.

Can there be a way to hold on to the taste of chocolate and lemon together, the sweetness of what once was, alongside the tartness of today?

The last bite is waiting, yellow curd spilling over the edges of my fork.

I savor it. Slowly.

Because I know that the sweetness comes after the sour… if you wait long enough.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 970)