Benjy Halb ran his fingers through his hair, feeling as unsure as if he was being asked to perform dance moves on stage. He had no idea what was expected of him.

At a different time, early in their marriage, he’d seen Naomi upset like this, but that had been a long time ago: she’d become a Halb over time. Halbs didn’t rage or screech or carry on. Benjy was proud of this, the fact that his children had grown up in a tranquil home.

It’s not because there hadn’t been difficulty. They had faced illness, like others. There had been a very scary time, that story with Matty and the prescription drugs, that whole mess, and the unpleasantness with Moshe Dovid and the yeshivah. Money didn’t make them immune to tzaros. But he couldn’t, for the life of him, understand why people in trouble ran to talk to magazines to vent and chew over every detail, like it was some kind of play they wanted to review. Noise, he believed, was like water and seeds: It made problems grow bigger.

Benjy Halb was a man who instinctively shuddered when he happened to hear talk radio hosts and callers shrieking hysterically at each other — but he couldn’t deny that his wife sounded a bit like that right now, frenzied and overly emotional.

“You wanted it, it was your youngest, you wanted it to go easy.” She was almost hissing. He hadn’t even taken off his hat, was still standing awkwardly on the inlaid mosaic stones just after the front door — no more carpet, Naomi had exulted, you’re going to love the new foyer, Benjy — where his wife had met him as he came in.

“I remember it like it was yesterday, Benjy. Shidduchim was always my department, and it worked out pretty well, baruch Hashem. Suddenly, you’re all like ‘Malky is different, she’s a soft person, she needs a very nice boy.’ You wanted simple. You wanted out of town. You wanted poor,” she almost spat the last word out. Only Olga was in the house, upstairs doing whatever she did all day — dusting the picture frames in empty bedrooms — but Benjy still felt embarrassed at the way his wife had used the word. Like there was something wrong.

“You said, ‘This is the boy, he’s tall and handsome, Malky will feel good with him as her husband, he smiles easily, he’s a learner, he’ll worship her, it’s the right thing.’ I told you, ‘Benjy listen to me,’ I said. ‘You don’t understand, these people are just not like us, it’s not a fit, Malky won’t be able to adjust. It’s too big a jump.’ And now look! Just look!”

Benjy had never walked away rather than continue a conversation; he couldn’t just turn his back on his wife. “Naomi, let’s sit down and continue this conversation, shall we?” he offered. There was something chiding in his voice, and he hoped she would hear the implicit rebuke.

She didn’t. She walked into the living room, each angry step creating deep depressions in the dark gray carpet.

He reluctantly took his usual seat — gray and white stripes, carved wooden legs — and looked at her with a touch of impatience.

“Children aren’t real estate, Benjy,” she said. This was a personal dig, and for the first time, he considered standing up and walking out of the room, the way he had when Baggio from Contracore had used inappropriate language at the board meeting last week. But she went on, apparently oblivious to his displeasure. “You can’t make projections, Benjy. There are plenty of nice boys with big smiles from families that fit with ours — boys who understand our lifestyle and don’t collapse under pressure. This was a big, huge mistake. I shouldn’t have let you get away with it. You were so proud of our simple mechutanim, parading them around like you had built them from scratch, patting yourself on the back at how you could do what Newman and Loeber can’t. You’re soooo normal. Wow. ‘Yes, he’s a mashgiach, a popcorn factory,’ you were so proud of yourself.” She spoke in a low rumble, as if imitating a male voice, and again he was embarrassed. “Which, by the way, isn’t even true, it’s jelly beans. But whatever, you made your point. ‘Malky will have an easy life,’ you said, and guess what? It’s not even true. She’s a mess.”

Naomi paused and exhaled, then grabbed one of the pillows and held it close, as if for comfort, closing her eyes.

Benjy felt very bad for her. A mother worried about her child, that was all.

“Why now, Naomi? What happened today?”

(Excerpted from Mishpacha, Issue 747)