It was her background, he didn’t want to get involved with a girl from a broken home. An only child, whose single mom might need her after her marriage

The worst part about the morning commute into Manhattan is that there’s nowhere to sit on the clanking subway. Forget sitting, there’s nowhere to stand.

The train smells of Monday morning. Coffee, cologne, pre-breakfast breath, sweat. Everywhere, bleary eyes, a touch incredulous: It’s seven-thirty — are we really doing this again?

Nava hugs the pole, eyes closed, head down, standing in sleep, until they are over the river. The New York Harbor, alive with the reflection of a million suns, flowing silver speckles downstream. There, in the blue distance, she stands. Hand held high. The Statue of Liberty. Nava’s lived here all her life, but it still fills her with thrill to see it. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…

"Business suits pressed together, briefcases tucked under arms or between feet, someone’s tie come undone, flapping merrily when a draft blows through the open door. She’s part of it now, the great huddled masses, the faces of New York.

Her phone pings.

Mom: It’s a yes!!!

What?

What is?

She shakes the a.m. fog off her brain.

Yes? The house on DeKalb Avenue? The sure-seller that isn’t?

Mom’s a real-estate broker. She’s got to find the “charming” in the run-down, the “cozy” in the dim, dank spaces. And be chipper about it. But the house on DeKalb….

DeKalb? She fires back.

Oh, no, honey. The shidduch.

Oh, the Coleman shidduch.

Her first date since she came back from Israel.

Nava leans into the pole, memories forming in the patch her breath makes on the metal.

There had been others back in Israel. Two that hadn’t made it past the second date. And that one. Samuels. Endless walks on cobblestone through the Old City. She had gotten to know it — the little alleys, surprises — to know him, he was like that too. Five dates, all through the same old place, but somehow it was never the same. And she thought life wouldn’t be, either.

But then it was. The shadchan had muttered something about commitment and personality. And that was it.

Only it wasn’t. Because she knew why. And she was mad at them both, him and the shadchan, for not having the nerve to say it like it was. It was her background, he didn’t want to get involved with a girl from a broken home. An only child, whose single mom might need her after her marriage.

She had cried away the wistful feelings, the puffs of a dream. It had felt so right. But it was too good to be true. Sometimes when she’d walk down to the Kosel, she’d meander through the Old City, trying to touch something of what they’d had, half expecting to find him.

And now she is back in New York, half a year and thousands of miles away from Samuels, who has probably tied the knot with someone else. The phone calls are a trickle, but who needs a lot of calls, you only need one. The one. Maybe it’s Shaya Coleman? Her phone vibrates again. Another message from Mom: So what do you think I should wear?

What did it matter what a mother hovering in the background, offering a drink, wore?

A suit? The maroon one, you think?

Maroon suit? She slaps her head. Of course, it’s Mom’s date.