While I had refused to listen to any of these dirt-fresh-on-the-grave suggestions, as the months passed it became clear that I had to remarry

W

hen my father remarried, at the age of 70, he told his new wife, “You’re not my second wife. You’re my second first wife.”

I remarried only a few years after he did. My first wife, with whom I enjoyed a beautiful relationship, became sick after we had been married 25 years. She passed away several months later, leaving me with nine children, the youngest of whom was only five.

My parents had grown up in prewar Europe, and had survived the war by fleeing to Shanghai, where I was born. My father, an accomplished talmid chacham, dedicated his life to learning and teaching Torah, encouraged by my mother, who was a distinguished mechaneches in her own right. Although they were no strangers to hardship — both lost most of their families in the war, and they suffered the tragic loss of an adult daughter — they maintained their simchas hachayim no matter what came their way.

Following their example, I was determined to keep a happy home even after the loss of my wife. “You may not have a mother,” I told my children, “but you’re not yesomim. We can do everything that other families do.”

And we did. I got special permission from my kids’ schools to take them on a trip to Florida during the school year, and we took many other fun trips together. I also worked very hard to keep the atmosphere in the house light and happy. I held a position as a rosh yeshivah, but in order to be both father and mother to my children, I had to temporarily hand over some of my duties to others in the yeshivah. My mother-in-law came over every evening to help with the children, while people in the community brought over supper every night.

At the time of my wife’s diagnosis, two of our children were married, and one was a kallah. Instead of preparing for her wedding, my daughter spent her engagement period caring for her younger siblings while I spent my days in the hospital at my wife’s bedside. When she got married, shortly after the petirah, she insisted on taking an apartment near me so that she could continue helping. I wouldn’t hear of it, however.

“You gave up your engagement,” I told her, “but I’m not letting you give up your shanah rishonah.”

Although I had no idea how I would manage without her, I put her and her husband on a plane to Eretz Yisrael so they could start their married life on their own.

One day, about half a year after my wife’s petirah, my seven-year-old son was vomiting and crying, and I was handling the situation alone. I managed to clean up, but I couldn’t get my son to calm down. He kept whimpering, “Ima, Ima.” I called over my married daughter, and she managed to calm him down. I realized then that as hard as I might try, I’d never be an Ima. And my kids needed a mother.