I reminded myself that I had no reason to worry. Maybe things would happen at the last minute, but my mother would help me pull this off, I knew I could rely on her

Nothing beats VIP seating.

Secure in the knowledge that my front-row seat at the Beineinu party would be waiting for me whenever I showed up, I took the chance to quickly peel the vegetables for the chicken soup, clean up the kitchen, and get Chaya and Asher bathed and into bed before leaving the house. My mother would’ve said to just skip their baths that night, but I had a soft spot for freshly bathed kids, and really, it took two minutes per bath, so it was no big deal. I also left clear instructions with Lali to make sure Avrumi and Yosef went into bed by eight o’clock sharp, or else, and Tziporah at eight forty-five.

Tziporah overheard that and whined. “Mommy always lets me stay up way later.”

That was probably true, but it was only because our mother didn’t have the headspace to deal with petty things like bedtimes. It didn’t make it right, and Tziporah knew that good and well.

There was no time to do my hair, but as my friend Raizy constantly reminded me, “Ha, ha, Malya, you’re taken, you don’t have to worry about bad hair days anymore.” She was wrong, of course. Who else, if not a kallah, should look amazing at all times?

The issue was that I’d forgotten to use gloves when peeling the vegetables, so never mind my casual ponytail, I was walking into Palazzo with orange palms.

I arrived at the very last minute, just as the emcee announced, “Mrs. Russie Heyman, it’s our greatest honor….”

Mrs. Russie Heyman noticed me slipping into my seat and threw a wink in my direction before wrapping her fingers around the mic. I mouthed, “Go, Ma!” and flashed her the proudest smile. If I was a teeny, tiny bit nervous for her, I knew there was no reason to be. My mother wouldn’t disappoint this audience. She never disappointed anyone.

It didn’t take long for her magic to take effect. With her inimitable storytelling skills, she shared the wrenching tale of a girl whose father collapsed and passed away the morning after her vort.

“So her grief, I don’t have to describe it to you, you can all picture it. She was drowning, totally drowning, and her chasunah was inching closer. She didn’t have the head to focus on any wedding prep, obviously. She told her chassan — a total tzaddik, I have to say. He was her anchor from the first minute, he didn’t leave the shivah house the entire week — to find them an apartment, whatever it was, she didn’t care. One of our amazing, absolutely amazing, volunteers reached out and connected with her, kind of became like her big sister, helping her hold her pain, guiding her to compartmentalize her sorrow and her joy during that intense, confusing time.

“But on top of all that, this father had been the primary breadwinner in the house, which meant that from one minute to the next, the family lost their parnassah. And they were making a chasunah.”

She went on to describe how Beineinu stepped in and covered the entire cost of the wedding.

“We couldn’t bring her father back. But with the help of people like you,” she pointed dramatically at the audience, who responded with polite applause, “who passionately and generously support Beineinu, who care for the yesomim and yesomos of Klal Yisrael, we were able to take this girl to the chuppah.”

After that, she thanked various volunteers who had “worked tirelessly to make this night a reality. And I also want to give a special thank you to my dear daughter, Malya…” She gave me a finger-flutter wave and grin, “for being my right hand at all times, for doing so much behind the scenes, for making it possible for me to devote my time to Beineinu.”

Okay, I had not seen that coming. Good thing they’d dimmed the lights, I was blushing furiously.

When the speech was over, I flung my arms around my mother, nonchalantly holding a fist to conceal my orange palms. “You were really, really good,” I told her honestly. “What did you go and talk about me at the end for? Ugh, Ma, seriously!”

“It’s the least I owe you,” she said. “I don’t know how I’ll manage when you’re married.”