“Okay, so let’s say it will. Let’s say the Virginia deal also dies at closing. Let’s say all your deals die at closing, and your entire pipeline goes up in smoke, then what?”

He passed a shaking hand over his eyes. “I don’t know, we’ll have to sell the house in Florida and the apartment in Israel and move to a condo in an adult community.”

“Right!” I said encouragingly. Was I doing this right? “That’s all. Lots of people live like that. We can handle that.”

Eventually he stopped shaking and his breathing slowed. “Sarah.” He looked exhausted.

“It was a panic attack.”

“I know.”

“Should I have called Hatzolah?”

“No.” He accepted the glass of water. “How long did it last?”

I glanced at my phone. “Fifteen minutes?”

“Okay.” He straightened up, looking more like himself again every moment. “Okay, if it happens again I’ll be able to tell myself, ‘it will be over in 15 minutes.’ ”

“It’s not going to happen again!”

The Oakland deal was over, but there was still paperwork to tie up; I saw how he procrastinated anything related to it. He tried to avoid Manny’s Virginia deal, too, but he couldn’t, considering it showed every sign of closing on time. The day before he was supposed to fly to Virginia I found him home in bed in the middle of the afternoon. He was pale, sweating, breathing rapidly. The whole thing all over again.

“Fifteen minutes,” I said lamely. “Let it wash over you, don’t fight it. It’s just the fight-or-flight response, it got triggered for no reason. Breathe deeply…”

“I’m not flying to Virginia tomorrow.”

“You can’t let this take over your life.”

“I’m not.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll drive. I’m getting ready right now.” He was already swiping and tapping. “Waze says it will take eight hours door to door. I’ll leave tonight, get into a hotel, get a nap, be ready for the noon closing.”

“You’re never going to fly again?”

“I didn’t say that.” He was booking the hotel. “Right now I’m driving to Virginia.”

“Daniel, you need to see someone about this.”

“I’m not taking meds.”

“I didn’t say meds. Therapy…”

He slipped the phone back onto his belt. “We’ll see if it happens again.”

The Virginia deal closed. Daniel drove home, eight hours.

Three days later he called me from the office. “I can’t breathe,” he said.

The first therapist wanted to talk about Daniel’s childhood. The second therapist wanted to talk about our marriage. The third therapist actually wanted to treat Daniel’s anxiety. He taught Daniel how to recognize an oncoming attack and gave him strategies on how to handle them when they hit. He identified an obsessive thought — “All my deals are going to fall through; I’ll become a pauper and a laughingstock” — and taught him how to fight the compulsion to think it. The Virginia deal had closed without hitch and his pipeline seemed strong. The Oakland fiasco was a fluke, after all. If not for the anxiety, it would have been forgotten.

But the panic attacks continued to strike, the anxiety persisted, and Daniel refused to fly.

When Shira’s number appeared on my screen at midnight one Wednesday, I had two simultaneous thoughts — mazel tov and I hope it’s a girl.

“Hello?”

“Ma? It’s a boy!”

“Mazel tov!” The phone was slippery in my hand. “Tell me everything!”

“He’s so beautiful, everything went well, the bris will be Thursday morning…” I didn’t hear anything after that.

“The bris is on Thursday morning,” I told Daniel. My voice sounded too loud.

Daniel swallowed. “I can’t fly, you know I can’t.”

“Maybe Dr. Yates can give you something to take.”

“I don’t take drugs.”

“Maybe you won’t need to, you can do the breathing…”

“You don’t understand, I’ll have a panic attack just walking into the airport!” He was starting to sweat.

“Breathe, Daniel!”

We couldn’t drive from New York to Los Angeles. It would take five days of nonstop driving, and there was no way we could leave before Shabbos. And Daniel was 63; even if we hired a driver, was he going to sit in a car eight hours a day? And what were we going to tell people, we decided to drive instead of fly because… it’s so much fun? We haven’t been on a road trip in 35 years? We had time on our hands?

But there was no way Daniel would be able to fly. Even I could see that.

The next day, I ordered flowers from the finest florist in LA and sent them to the hospital. They didn’t have Shira’s favorite chocolate, so I had those special-ordered from New York. On Sunday I ordered an exquisite layette. I had it shipped to LA overnight. From Italy.

“Ma?” Shira’s voice held that tender mix of joy and exhaustion. “Thanks for the gifts.” Disbelief, also. “This is so beautiful. He’s not my first baby, you know.”

“I know.” I forced a laugh. “We love them all so much.”

“The kids can’t wait for you to get here.”

When I hung up I went back to the computer and shipped each of Shira’s kids a gift.

When I turned around I saw Daniel standing there. “Should we tell them the truth?”

“No!”

Right, I knew that would be the answer.

“Maybe I should go alone.”

Daniel looked at me with hooded eyes. “I hate this. I’m sorry.”

“I could tell them that you had a closing… the flu…”

“You’ve never traveled alone.”

“I’m a big girl, I can do it.”

He turned away. “I’m letting you down, I’m letting them down. For heaven’s sake, I want to be there!” The panic attack that evening was the worst of them all.

I had never known Daniel this vulnerable.

I didn’t tell Shira until Tuesday. “So smart of you to ship the gifts ahead.” She was laughing. “Save yourself the shlep.”

“Shira…”

“The wonders of modern technology. I’ll hide them so you can give them to the kids yourself.”

“Actually, I – “

“When is your flight coming in? Ruvi will meet you there.”

“Shira, listen, I have bad news. I don’t think we’re going to make it.”

“What?” In her shocked pause I shifted the phone to my other hand. “What do you mean?”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart… Daddy and I can’t come in for the bris.”

Silence.

“What happened, Ma? Something happened. Just tell me. I can handle it.”

“No, no, nothing like that. Everything is okay. It’s just…” Now was my chance, the flu, a deal, an expired passport. “Listen, Shira, I’m so sorry, but Daddy and I just can’t make it this time.”

“Ma.” Her voice was disbelieving. “Ma, you’re not coming to the bris?” I didn’t answer and her voice rose. “How can that be? I never heard of such a thing!” She sounded like a teenager — I remember those arguments. “Daddy was going to get sandek!” Her voice turned accusing. “Is it because of the name? You know we have to name after Ruvi’s father!”

“Is that what you think of me? That I wouldn’t come because of the name? Shira!”

“Sorry,” said Shira stiffly.

There was a silence.

Could I tell her? I couldn’t tell her. It was personal. Daniel had a right to privacy.

We didn’t go to the bris. I sent another gift and I paid for a photographer. Shira never sent me the pictures. When I asked for them, I got an answer full of false surprise. “Oh! I didn’t realize you’d be interested,” Shira said.

I’ve never seen a picture of the baby since then. She never calls. She’s hurt, I know she is, but this is totally out of proportion!

I can’t tell Shira the truth. But if there was one thing I could tell her it would be: Shira, I’m your mother. You know I love you. You know I wanted to be there. You’re a parent yourself. If I tell you that I want to come, but that I really can’t… you should trust me enough to know that I’m telling you the truth.

Shira

The idea of separate apartments for the Succos trip to Israel sounded okay to me the first time Mommy mentioned it. Not that she asked my opinion. She just said, “I rented you an apartment right next to ours. That way we’ll be right near each other, but you’ll have the space you need.”

When you’re in the same house, a rhythm develops, you naturally integrate your schedules. But if you’re in separate apartments and getting together involves a double stroller and uphill staircases, you end up saying things like, “What time should we come for the meal?” and then they say, “Maybe we’ll make Kiddush ourselves, if you need extra time in the morning.” Then after the meal we’d go back to our apartment so the kids and adults could nap. There’s no Seudah Shlishis on Yom Tov, so we didn’t get together again until after Maariv, for the next meal. Like she said, we did have a lot of space.

It wasn’t like going to Israel together for Succos. It was like we just happened to be in Israel at the same time.

On the first day of Chol Hamoed, we got up early and did a beautiful full-day trip to Rosh Hanikra together with my parents. In the car on the way back there was that contented, cozy lethargy you get at the end of a long fun day. “What are we going to do tomorrow?” I asked. It was a throwaway question, just a set-up for someone to laugh and say, “I am way too tired to even think about tomorrow.”

But my mother said, “I was thinking of going to the Kosel in the morning and then walking around the Old City.”

“Sounds nice,” I said, thinking about the double stroller and the narrow sidewalks. “What time do you want to leave?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Whenever we get moving, I guess. Do you want us to stop by on our way out and see if you’re able to join us?”

Uh, no, actually. I want you to include me in your plans and act like you want me to be there, not do me a favor and let me tag along “if I’m able.”

“Nah, we’re probably going to be too tired. Thanks, though.”

Ruvi had thought I was overreacting. “Come on, Shira, you know how hard it is to work around little kids’ schedules. And they’re cranky and jetlagged and everything. Why shouldn’t your parents go to the Kosel whenever they feel like it?”

I opened the fridge — a bag of milk and some bruised apples. “It’s like they did their duty, took pictures to show their friends. ‘Look, we went with Ruvi and Shira and the kids to Rosh Hanikra,’ and now they can relax and enjoy themselves.”

“Shira, your parents just brought us on a free trip to Israel.”

“You think I’m just the spoiled youngest daughter of a rich man. You don’t get it. My parents always gave me stuff growing up, but I never felt like they liked me. They never schmoozed with me or talked to me about my life or told me about theirs.”

“I never heard this from you before.”

I shrugged. “It’s not the kind of thing you tell a guy on your first date.” I opened the fridge again. “There’s nothing to eat here.”

“I’ll stay with the kids. Go to the makolet, you’ll feel better if you get out.”

At the makolet I met my parents. They grinned and waved from behind a loaded wagon. “Fancy meeting you here,” my father said.

My mother gave a mock shudder. “There’s nothing to eat in our apartment.” Nor ours, I thought. Thanks for asking if we needed anything. “So here we are, spending our vacation shopping for groceries. Wait, when have I done this before?”

“We’re like those newlywed couples, shopping for groceries together.” Daddy exaggerated a soppy grin. “That’s what makes it a vacation.”

“So nice,” I said.

“Ruvi with the kids?”

“Yes.”

“Any plans for tomorrow?”

I shrugged.

“Okay, well, enjoy. See you!”

Or not, I thought. Depends when you get back from the Kosel.

It’s not like the whole thing started on that trip to Israel. But being in a foreign country without all the other pieces of my life crowding in brought the issue into sharp relief.

Of course, there’s nothing like having a baby to bring up all your issues again.

“My parents said they’re going to take a car service from the airport.” Ruvi was holding Mina, the phone was still at his ear, he was doing 40 things at once. “My mother said I shouldn’t meet them, she doesn’t want me to leave you alone with the kids and the new baby the night before the bris.”

His voice buzzed around my head, like it was coming from far away. With enormous effort, I nodded.

“Do you know when your parents are landing?”

“They’re not coming.”

“What?” Ruvi stopped moving.

“You heard me.”

He stared at me. “But — I don’t understand, why not?”

“Stop looking at me like that. I have no idea. They just called and said they’re not coming.”

“Who called? Your mother? What did she say?”

“I called to thank her for the toys she sent for the kids. I asked her when they’re landing and she just said they’re not coming.”

Ruvi sat down hard. “Did something happen? Something must have happened.”

I gritted my teeth. “That’s what I thought. But she said no. They just ‘can’t make it.’ ”

“No explanation?” He was cooking up worst-case scenarios, I could see it on his face. I waved my hand. “Oh, please, it’s always like this.”

“What are you talking about? Look at this.” He lifted a handmade fine-knit Italian romper with Swarovski crystals on the suspender buttons. The dangling price tag glinted in the light.

“Yeah, gifts. It’s easy to send gifts. Traveling to LA is apparently too much hassle.”

“Okay, wait, Shira, I’m sorry, I was caught off guard.” He rubbed a hand over the two-day stubble. “You just gave birth, you’re exhausted, it’s not the right time to be having this conversation.”

I leaned back against the pillows and folded my arms. “It’s never going to be the right time to have this conversation because my parents don’t ‘have conversations’ with me. They act like we’re another obligation. ‘Regretfully, I cannot attend,’ or whatever it says on return cards.”

“No, Shira, I’m sure it’s just…” Ruvi looked lost. “They probably… I mean, it could be anything.” He couldn’t seem to think of “anything,” though, so he just said, “Can’t you try and be understanding?”

It’s easier to feel angry than abandoned. “Sure, I can make something up, any random far-fetched scenario. But why should I? They’re always like this.”

I don’t feel strong enough to talk to my mother about this. But if I could tell her one thing, it would be that gifts aren’t love. Time is love. And relationships are about communication. If you never share anything with me, how can you expect me to understand?

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 702)