Each year for the past hundred, I buzz Toby’s doorbell after nibbling hamantaschen at my aunt’s place. We connect, we marvel, and I go my merry way. Toby has a full life, I’m happy for her. She knows her priorities. I wish I could do that.

Three years ago, as I left Toby’s house empty-handed, I felt my mask slipping. Maybe it’s because I was wizened by experiences that taught me things about myself I hadn’t internalized before. The mask I wore, labeled, “I’m okay when I’m nice even if others aren’t,” loosened. There was a forlorn feeling in my chest I couldn’t pinpoint. I told myself to just let it go. It didn’t matter if Toby didn’t reciprocate with a box of chocolates. I’m good anyhow.

My mind was all for it, but my heart protested. The next year, I left Toby’s place sans treat, my mask gauzy as I went my miserable way. What am I to Toby that she can’t take the extra three minutes to make one more cappuccino-carrot-muffin combo?

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I need the cupcake. I could walk into any coffee shop and get one, inhale and savor it with a good friend. It’s more that I’m at Toby’s door like clockwork every year. She knows I’m coming. I want to feel that she cares enough to acknowledge my presence. I want to know I matter enough that she remembers my overture of friendship.

Now, as I drop a chocolate and schnapps into colored cups, I’m not sure. Do I bring one to Toby or not? It’s not that I’m letting go of this friendship. It’s more the realization that I can’t step into Toby’s domain, stretch out my hand, and get hot air in return. I’ll naturally distance myself. My body language will betray me. My facial expression will tell more than I can ever say with words. Sure, I can send one and be over and done with it. But that’s not the point of me making a cup for Toby. It’s that I want to connect and enjoy her presence. What is the reason we give mishloach manos if not to bond our hearts?

The other solution is to bump into Toby at the elevators and have a chat. Open and straight and mature. My mind has other ideas though, and when I see Toby, it alerts my legs to scurry away because I’m late. Toby waves and I wave back. It feels small and foolish to beg her to give me a prize. I don’t know what else to do, so I do nothing. Including avoiding Toby.

Until I can’t anymore, and on the spur of the moment, I take a breather during lunch break and punch in Toby’s cell. We have a this-and-that schmooze for 49 seconds until I succeed in weaving the conversation to Purim matters.

Toby takes right over. “I’m arranging a post-Purim, pre-Pesach lunch thing for the building girls. You’re invited.”

Groan. There goes my courageous admission that I need a chocolate chip cookie. “Wow! Nice,” I say. “When?”

“I’ll send out a WhatsApp.”

“I don’t have WhatsApp.”

“I won’t remember you then. You’ll find out from someone and come.”

A slow fever rises in my chest, heats my head. “Toby.” My voice is soft and crashing. “I’ll come. And you’ll remember to send me a text.”

The phone is silent for seven long seconds. When Toby wakes up, her words are like a wave. “You’re right. I will,” she says.

Come Purim afternoon, I clamber up Toby’s steps. beside me, my son, in a bold red shirt.

Toby and I exchange greetings and “how your kids shot up” amid the still air in her foyer. I clutch the colored cup as I stretch out my hand in my friend’s direction. A light flicks on, and I see creases on Toby’s face as she accepts my overture of friendship. Then she motions with her hand.

“Wait a minute,” she says with aplomb, as if she’s going to unveil an elegant piece of art. I gaze into her house, as far as I can see. There are eye masks scattered on the wavy rug. Will she? Won’t she?

Toby is back, with a wafer and chocolate liqueur. “This is for you,” she says, “I counted you in.”

“Thank you,” I say softly.

I let myself out and go my sunny way, my red-shirted son strolling beside me.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 935)