Over the next few weeks I waited for Rina to call, but she didn’t. I tried calling her, but she was hard to reach.

Rina had always run the show, but I could step up if I had to. The first step was to arrange a conference call. Ita and Ahuva were both living in Israel, and both said evenings were best.

I called Rina on Sunday. She didn’t answer, so I left a message, but she didn’t call back. I called her again on Monday. She answered with, “Hi, is it urgent? It’s just a little hectic here,” so I told her to call me back, but she didn’t.

On Tuesday night I texted her. Still up?

Yes — urgent?

I called her. “What’s wrong?” she said immediately.

“Nothing, why do you think something’s wrong?”

“It’s a little late, that’s all.”

“Oh, it’s so hard to catch you during the day — you’re so busy. I figured this would be a better time to talk. What are we doing for the sheva brachos? I was thinking we need to make this one extra special — it’s the last one.”

“How are you thinking to do that?”

Um, since when was I in charge? “We need to have a conference call, okay? Ita and Ahuva say they’re available after 9, that’s 2 p.m. our time — does that work for you?”

“NO.”

Whoa. “What’s wrong?”

I could hear some clinking, like she was washing dishes or something. “I can’t really talk in the afternoon.”

“But when it’s 8 or 9 here, it’s the middle of the night in Israel.”

A huffy sigh. “Listen, Chedva, I know officially we all make the sheva brachos together, but since Ita and Ahuva are in Israel, you and I do all the work. It’s nice to try and include them but I think it’s more important to find a time to talk that works for the Americans, you know?”

That was kind of unfair of her — it’s not like they moved to Israel davka to get out of helping. I tried to imagine telling Ita and Ahuva that we weren’t including them in the planning. I didn’t think that would go over too well.

Rina suggested Sunday morning. I said okay and hung up quickly.

Of course, Ita and Ahuva both said they were too busy at 5 p.m. to have a conference call. I knew that was going to happen. But I was determined to step up and find a solution. Rina was always up late — maybe late at night could work?

But when I suggested it, Rina shot me down. We finally scheduled for Sunday noon. First I told everyone about the sequin runners — Ita and Ahuva were much more excited that Rina had been, so that was gratifying.

“So I guess the color scheme is black and gold?” Ita said.

“Black and white is so trendy now,” Ahuva said. “Maybe we could do black and white, and just use gold as an accent?”

I hesitated, unsure. This was really Rina’s thing. Rina said nothing.

Ahuva interrupted. “Are we doing milchigs or fleishigs?”

Ita voted milchigs, I said fleishigs. I expected Rina to tell us the plan, but she said, “Let’s cater it.”

Ahuva laughed but I could tell Rina was dead serious.

“Listen, Rina,” Ita said. “You work and Yaakov works, but I’m just a poor little kollel wife. This is a budget sheva brachos.”

“Where are we making this budget sheva brachos?” Rina countered.

We were making it at her house. Of course we were making it at her house. We always made it at her house. Why was she doing this?

“We always make it at your house,” I said. “We obviously can’t make it in Israel, and I don’t own a house. You have plenty of space. It always works.”

“You’re right, we do always make it here. But this time, if we make it here, we’re catering it.”

What!

She wasn’t done. “And we’re renting the tables, chairs, and tablecloths.”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “but this is a group effort. You don’t get to make the decisions just because it’s in your house!”

“I have to go,” Ita said. “Simcha’s home.”

“I have to go, too,” Ahuva said quickly.

I stayed on the line. “Rina, what’s up with you?”

She was quiet for a minute. “It’s too much for me. I work, I have six kids, I have a household to run. Yaakov’s never home. I just can’t do it this time.”

“I hear, but you know, we all help.”

You know, when you want to make something work, nothing can stop you, but when you don’t want to make something work, any little thing can stop you.

And as she continued talking, Rina made it clear that she wasn’t interested in making this work.

First she complained about schlepping the tables and chairs from the gemach: “Yaakov has to drive there, schlep up and down the stairs, then unload at home, and do the whole thing all over again the next day in reverse. Six tables and sixty chairs.”

Then she complained about the tablecloths: “The gemach makes you return them in 36 hours, and each of them has to be washed separately in the machine and hang-dried.”

She complained about the cooking: “I’m going to end up making everything,” — and the setup: “My living room and dining room is going to be off-limits to my kids all day while I try to set up, and it’s going to be Sunday so they’re all going to be home.”

She didn’t like any of my ideas, either. I told her Simcha and Shalom would be here from Israel with nothing to do, and that they could help Yaakov schlep the tables and chairs. I told her I’d wash the tablecloths, we’d buy the challah, we’d all help cook. Whatever I said, she shot it down. She just wasn’t interested.

What am I going to tell Mommy? That we’re not making sheva brachos for Esther because we can’t afford to cater it and it’s in Rina’s house so she calls the shots?

Rina thinks she gets to make the decisions because she’s the oldest. Maybe she’s just burned out, I don’t know. But you know what? You don’t check out of your sister’s simchah because you’re not in the mood. This is the kind of thing you do for family!

If I could tell Rina one thing it would be: why are you turning a family simchah into a family feud?

Rina

When Yaakov left at 6 a.m., I snuck out of my room. If I could just switch the wet clothes into the dryer before the baby woke up, everyone would have clean clothes in time to make the bus.

The baby started to wail as the dryer started to spin, as if someone had suddenly turned on the sound in the Marlin house.

No coffee today, I guess.

The volume rose through the morning: All the wrong cereals and can’t find my white shirt, Mindy’s looking at me, who touched my briefcase, I’m not going to school, can you sign my test. Ma, why don’t we have any good snacks, I think I’m sick, I need six dollars for my class project, my cereal spilled. One mother, six kids, two buses, two carpools — you do the math. When I got to work at 9:30, I had to consciously restrain myself from collapsing into my swivel chair.

Malky poked her head over the cubicle. “Good morning. Cute top.”

“Thanks.” I got up. “I need a coffee.”

She trailed after me. “What’s new?”

“The usual.” There was a tray of Danishes in the kitchenette. I took one.

“Yum.” Malky took one, too. “Seriously, there’s no way I can diet at this stage of my life. Three kids, I work, it’s like living on a hamster wheel.” She glanced at me. “I don’t know how you do it. You always look so together.”

“Oh,” I said vaguely. “Looks can be deceiving.”

She laughed. I didn’t.

At noon I got a call from Danny’s school. He was running a fever, could I please pick him up. There goes another hour of lost work time that I would have to make up at home tonight. I felt guilty for feeling resentful. How was this supposed to work?

I parked outside the yeshivah and went in. Danny didn’t look good. Could I really bring him back to work with me?

We got into the car, I turned the key. The car didn’t start.

“I’m going to scream,” I muttered.

“I’m going to throw up,” Danny said.

I didn’t scream, but he threw up.

I called Chaveirim. Then I called Yaakov. I gave him the rundown.

“I feel terrible,” he said. “What can I do?”

“Nothing.” What could he do? He was 150 miles away.

Chaveirim came and boosted the car. “It’s your battery,” said my savior. “Go straight to the mechanic. It’s probably going to die again when you turn the car off.”

Go straight to the mechanic, sure. And then get home how? And what about picking up Tzviki and Sara?

I looked at the clock. It was 1 p.m. It didn’t make sense to go back to work. I would have to get the kids now; I couldn’t risk the car dying again.

Danny cried the whole way, begging me to just take him home. Since I was early, I interrupted Tzviki’s nap. I walked in the door with three crying kids. The cereal bowls were still on the table, except for the ones that were on the floor. I felt like crying myself.

I made pasta for supper — no one ate it. When Yaakov walked in at seven, he had to climb over six knapsacks just to get past the entryway. I fell asleep when I was putting Sara to bed. (She didn’t fall asleep — she just walked out of the room.)

The nap left me groggy and disoriented. The volume in my head sounded like screaming cymbals over crashing drums. At 10 p.m. I gritted my teeth and signed into LogMeIn. I had work to do. And the kids were getting up in eight hours.

At 11:30 my phone buzzed. Text from Chedva: Still up?

Savagely, I swiped at the phone. Yes — urgent?

It rang.

I answered it (no choice, she knew I was up). “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Chedva sounded surprised. “Why do you think something’s wrong?”

Because you usually call me when you need something, I did not say. “It’s a little late, that’s all.” I got up from my desk and started cleaning up.

“Oh.” Chedva laughed. “It’s so hard to catch you during the day, you’re so busy. I figured this would be a better time to talk.”

I kicked the Clics into a pile and didn’t say anything.

“So what are we doing for the sheva brachos? I was thinking we need to make this one extra special — it’s the last one.”

I was dimly aware that she probably did not mean that the other ones weren’t nice. “How are you going to do that?”

“We need to have a conference call, okay? Ita and Ahuva say they’re available after 9, that’s 2 p.m. our time, does that work for you?”

“NO.”

Chedva paused. “What’s wrong?”

I picked out the Shabbos silverware from the mess of play dishes. “I can’t really talk in the afternoon.”

The next day Chedva reported that Ita and Ahuva both said their afternoons were too hectic to talk. “But I have a great idea,” she said. “You’re always up late anyway, no? So how about we schedule the call for 1 a.m. our time, 8 a.m. their time? They both said their husbands are available then to cover for them.”

“You’re joking.”

“Rina.” There was a bite in her voice. “We’re all trying to be flexible and make it work for you. You can’t shoot down every time slot I suggest.”

The conference call took place, b’shaah tovah u’mutzlachas, on Sunday at noon, 7 p.m. in Israel. We only had half an hour because Shalom and Simcha would be coming home at 7:30 Israel time for supper. Fifteen minutes went to debating the color scheme. Then Ahuva said, “Are we doing milchigs or fleishigs?”

“Milchigs,” said Ita.

“Fleishigs,” said Chedva.

I tried to sound casual. “Let’s cater it this time.”

“Ha, very funny.” Ahuva actually laughed.

“I think we should do milchigs,” Ita insisted, like I hadn’t said anything.

“No way,” Chedva said. “Zev will never agree, it’s a seudas mitzvah.”

I cleared my throat. “I’m serious,” I said loudly. “I think we should cater it.”

“Listen, Rina,” Ita said. “You work and Yaakov works, but I’m just a poor little kollel wife. This is a budget sheva brachos.”

Right, we both work, we must be millionaires. “Where are we making this budget sheva brachos?”

It was quiet for a beat. “We always make it at your house,” Chedva said. “We obviously can’t make it in Israel, and I don’t own a house. You have plenty of space. It always works.”

I took a deep breath. “You’re right, we do always make it here. But this time, if we make it here, we’re catering it. And,” I almost lost my nerve but I said it, “we’re renting the tables, chairs and tablecloths.”

Chedva was furious. “Rina, what’s up with you?”

“It’s too much for me.” It killed me to say it. “I work, I have six kids, I have a household to run. Yaakov’s never home. I just can’t do it this time.”

“I hear.” She was trying to be patient but she has two kids and her husband learns and she works part-time and her rent gets paid for her. “You know, we all help.”

“I know, that’s what we say every time. But Ita and Ahuva are coming in from Israel. They’re not going to shlep a whole sheva brachos worth of food frozen in their suitcases. They’re going to make a couple of salads the morning of.”

“Well, they can’t exactly—”

“And you have no idea how much work it is, schlepping the tables and chairs. The gemach is in a basement; Yaakov has to drive there, schlep them up and down, up and down, then unload at home, and do the whole thing all over again the next day in reverse. Six tables and sixty chairs.”

“So maybe someone can help him this time. Zev will be in yeshivah, but Simcha and Shalom will be here — why can’t they go with him and help out?”

“Because they’ll be here from Israel and their kids will be cranky and their wives will be overwhelmed and they won’t want them to lose an opportunity to go America-shopping just because Yaakov doesn’t want to schlep a few chairs.”

“Rina!”

“And then there’s the tablecloths,” I continued doggedly. “The gemach makes you return them in 36 hours, and each of them has to be washed separately in the machine and hang-dried.”

“Fine.” She sounded impatient. “So I’ll take all the dirty tablecloths home with me afterward and wash them, okay?”

“You don’t have a washing machine.”

“In the basement of my building. I do wash my own family’s laundry.”

I made a skeptical sound.

“You’re the one who’s complaining. I’m trying to make it work!”

“And what about the food?”

“I don’t care. You pick. Milchigs or fleishigs — whatever makes you happy.”

“That’s not the point. I’m going to end up making the appetizer, since it has to be set up before the party starts. Which, by the way, means that for most of the day my living room, dining room, and kitchen is off-limits to my kids. And it’s going to be Sunday. And they’re all going to be home, and I’m going to be totally unavailable for them because I’m going to be setting up the party. Trying to, anyway.”

“I would come, but then I would have to bring my kids, too, so I don’t think it would be much of a help.” She thought for a minute. “I guess you could send your kids here while you set up.”

“That’s a nice idea, but my kids are way older than your kids. What would they do in your apartment? But anyway, let’s say you make the main course — that’s a big job — so we’ll ask Ita and Ahuva to make the salads. That just leaves me with the challah, soup, a couple of side dishes, and dessert.”

“We can buy the challah, if Ita and Ahuva agree. I’ll make the dessert.” Her tone became uncertain. “Can I store it in your freezer, though?”

“Chedva, maybe we just need to face the fact that we can’t make sheva brachos this time.”

“Rina, are you crazy? Esther is the last one — we have to! How would she feel? How would Mommy and Abba feel?”

I said nothing.

“You’re just upset because you had a hard day.”

I thought about that. “I did have a hard day,” I said slowly. “In fact it’s just been a generally challenging time. I have a lot on my plate and all my pots are boiling over.” I tried to laugh.

“Maybe we should talk about it again in a few days when you’re feeling back to yourself.”

“No.” This time I didn’t need to think. “No. I know you don’t like it and I feel bad, but I can’t host the sheva brachos unless we cater it.”

If I could tell Chedva one thing it would be: I didn’t say I don’t want to do it. I only said I can’t.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 719)