Later, after the kids are all safely in their classrooms, learning, playing, and being taught by magical human beings who have endless patience, she drinks in the silence. It’s cold outside, but at least the sun is out and the sky is blue.

It is amazing to her how cloudy days always bring her down. How fragile does a person have to be for their mood to be controlled by the color of the sky? Then again, nothing about her is normal. She is broken, defective, put together all wrong. Her pieces are scattered, screws are inside out, and she can’t find anything in the mess.

She tries to give all she can to her husband and children, but all she can do is hold it all together by sheer force of will. Her reserves are empty, her account is in overdraft, and she knows, she knows that if she doesn’t do something soon it’ll all catch up with her.

She takes out her siddur and begins to whisper rhythmically. The words taste like sandpaper. Once upon a time, she was the girl who finished Shemoneh Esreh when her class was up to Aleinu. The pages of her siddur were creased and worn. She’d stand with her face covered by her siddur, and it was just her and her Father in Heaven. He was all she had, and she asked Him, begged Him to please end the misery that was her life. She felt like He was really listening, like He could see into her heart, and that one day He would make it all better. But that was then. Now it seemed that He too didn’t deem her worthy enough to be close to Him. 

Time moves faster in silence. Five loads, one sweep, a grocery run, soup, main dish, kid side dish, adult side dish, putting everything in place, and a few minutes to just be, and the kids are back.

Their energy astounds her. You’d think that after a full day of learning and playing they’d want to relax. But no, strange creatures that they are, they want to talk talk talk, do somersaults on the couch, and beg for endless snacks. Mostly though, they want her, all of her, more than even exists of her, and she reasons that she had her silence and she has to be grateful for that and give the kids all that they want from her. So she listens.

Through her pounding headache, the pit in her stomach, the tiredness in her bones, she listens. She lets them romp on the couch, scatter crumbs all over the house, and she smiles. She pats their little heads and pinches their little cheeks and tells them that she loves them so much, and that they are the yummiest kids in the world. It’s true, they are the yummiest kids in the world. She loves them more than life itself, more than she was ever loved, but sometimes she just wants to escape it all.

She lays out supper neatly, making sure the main dish and side dish don’t touch. By the time they agree to sit down and eat, it’s almost cold. There’s something about the combination of kids and food that makes her blood pressure rise. They’re hungry, probably starving, so why can’t they simply eat like civilized human beings? What is it that motivates them to ensure that the food lands in every unreachable corner of the kitchen? She hopes against hope that between all this mess they consumed enough protein and starch to sustain them another day.

She walks out of the room and takes a deep breath, and then another. She alone knows that she cannot afford to yell at her kids like her neighbors do. She is afraid that she won’t be able to stop. She is afraid that the light in her children’s eyes will go out and be replaced by fear, and she will do anything, anything in the world to never see that fear in her children’s eyes. 

It seems like hours before they are done, but when she looks at the clock only a half hour has passed. She shoos them into the playroom, hoping for just a few moments of quiet play before one of them inevitably looks at the other the wrong way, and she is called upon to be judge and jury.

She quickly cleans up the mess and makes the kitchen presentable. Her husband doesn’t like to “sit in dirt.” Neither should he have to. He puts in long hours at the office so they could live without worrying about paying the next bill. Soon he walks through the door, all smiles for the kids. She knows he is ravenously hungry and quickly puts out the soup, main dish, and adult side dish. He makes quick work of the food, makes some business calls, and soon it’s time to go out to Maariv. In the meantime she has bathed the kids, and as soon as he leaves she gets them into bed. More cleanup, drinks, and bathroom runs, and they are finally, blessedly asleep. Silence fills her home once more.

She closes every light in the house and retreats to her bedroom. The darkness has always been her friend. It feels comforting, like a weighted blanket. Once more, she sees the locked door in her mind. She knows that this time she must get in. She is tired of being locked out, tired of pretending, and tired of giving when she is so very empty inside. 

As she pushes at the door, though, she is gripped by fear. She doesn’t want to know what’s behind it. She feels safe this way, on the outside, with whatever it is that scares her remaining out of sight. She knows suddenly, that she did this, she locked this door. She did it too far back to remember. There must have been a good reason for it. She must retreat now, while she still can, before her fragile balance is toppled and her world falls to pieces. But something pulls at her, tugs at her heart. It’s a voice. It’s quite insistent, this thin little voice, and despite herself, she strains to listen.

A moment later, she realizes she has made a big mistake. All it took was one moment, one moment of letting down her guard, and the door is suddenly open. The pain that slices through her momentarily knocks the breath out of her lungs. It spills out of the emptiness, filling her every crevice. The rest of the world falls away.

In that moment she is not Rina the mother or Rina the wife. Right now it’s just her and the little girl cowering in a corner of her mind, a thread of intense pain connecting them both. She sees her now, her inner child. She sees her shaking in fear under the blanket as her mother’s shrill voice pierces through her flimsy armor. Mommy is in one of her moods. Something that happened, or something someone said, made her really mad. Little Rina is hiding under her covers waiting, waiting for it to pass, waiting for a sign that it’s safe to come out.

She sees teenage Rina washing a mountain of dishes under her mother’s

watchful eye, knowing that if she doesn’t do a perfect job she will be punished

severely. She sees her in camp on visiting day, her bunkmates so excited to finally see their parents, while she is hoping that somehow her parents won’t come. Sometimes her wish is fulfilled, and she is both relieved and forlorn. 

She sees Rina home from seminary, having forgotten for a moment what home is like, only to be reminded swiftly. 

The sobs that wrack her body surprise her in their intensity. She’d thought her well of tears had long gone dry. Yet here she is, a grown woman, curled up in a fetal position, crying out loud. She can’t control it. Once that door opened, it’s like all the tears she kept buried for so long came gushing out. She hopes the sound won’t wake her kids. Thankfully they sleep on, blissfully unaware.

She cries for what feels like forever, but eventually her eyes close on their own, and she falls into a weary, fitful sleep. In her dreams she sees the little girl again. She is wearing a pretty dress with pink flowers. Her hair is neatly brushed, and her cheeks are dotted with freckles. Her

big brown eyes stare at Rina, twin pools of sadness. The little girl is running, running on the grass, running toward her.

As she stares up at her in silence, Rina suddenly realizes what she needs. It’s so simple. She holds out her arms, and the little girl runs into them. She holds her tight, and doesn’t let go. As the wind picks up, their feet are no longer on the ground. They are flying, big and little Rina, over the mountains, over the ocean, and they are not afraid, not anymore. For now they have each other. Now the little girl is safe, safe in her arms, and they are flying together, free at last.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 575)