“I did everything right,” she whispers at last. I believe her, I really do. Except for one giant, glaring detail: She chose to marry him

The first time one of them called me rebbetzin, I didn’t even look up.

Mainly because I’m not a rebbetzin.

Case in point, I loudly blame other people when I step on Lego, I spend way too much time on my sheitel, and I will always win at Harry Potter trivia.

Also, you know, I’m not a rebbetzin.

Akiva tried to explain to me that the guys didn’t view me as a regular 28-year-old. I was Rebbi’s wife, and therefore, I was Rebbetzin. I, in turn, tried explaining to him that they can just call me Mrs. Goldberg. We compromised, and they call me Rebbetzin.

Now, ten years later, I’ve grown into the role. I still don’t feel like a rebbetzin, but Thursday nights find me baking cookies for 70 boys and wrapping them in packs of three. We host Purim parties and spend Shabbos at the yeshivah twice a year, and even go up north with the boys for Lag B’omer.

What I don’t and won’t do is Shabbos meals. I just feel that Akiva is hardly ever home, and Shabbos is the one time we can really give the kids our all, focus on them, and just enjoy them. And if it has anything to do with the fact that the Ahavas Toras Chesed boys are a bit more colorful than your average bochur, then that’s just a fact I keep buried deep down with my “I’m obviously not a real rebbetzin” persona. Some of these boys come from difficult homes and some come from incredibly beautiful ones. But if they chose ATC, it’s because they were looking for a relaxed atmosphere and a deep sense of brotherhood.

But right now, as I look at the mascara-streaked face of the young girl in front of me who has come to seek my counsel, I feel every inch of my role, and every one of the 18 years I have on the poor thing. I also find myself studying the hairline of her wig, trying to figure out where it starts.

“And then,” she chokes out, “he said, ‘Why would I want to stay home with you when the boys are playing football tonight?’ ”

I reel back. Her husband, Shuey, is a really nice, cute ATC boy, but this is the fourth time Lani Stein has sat on my couch crying, and each time, the things she repeats from her husband make my skin crawl. Last time, there were some gems like, “Why are you always calling to find out when I’ll be home? It’s embarrassing.”

She breaks down and sobs and it’s all I can do not to fold her into a giant hug and whisper, “There, there, sweetie.”

What I do instead is pass her a box of tissues and sit with her in silence until her tears subside somewhat.

“I did everything right,” she whispers at last. I believe her, I really do. Except for one giant, glaring detail: She chose to marry him.