“Hi, how’s it going?” Mrs. Taub asked perkily.

When I answered with nothing that would germinate into anything resembling a conversation, she got straight down to business. “Great. Happy to hear. Sooooo, I just wanted to let you know that I requested that Dassi be transferred to the other bunk, because, well, I’ll just come right out and say it… Meira is feeling completely smothered.

“You know how it is at this age. She’s trying to make new friends and build new relationships, and Dassi is getting in the way. She simply wants way too much of Meira’s attention. So this is really a heads-up, because the camp director is going to be calling you about the switch, and I wanted to keep you in the loop.”

I was stunned. Dassi and Meira had gone to the same camp in upstate New York along with a fair number of other girls from our town, all in the same bunk. The other bunk held the girls from everywhere else.

The day that the camp acceptance letter arrived in the mail, there was much joy in our living room — and I was a fully invested partner in the happy dancing. Dassi was beyond thrilled to spend the summer in a bunk with classmates and other neighborhood girls that she knew. But she was most excited about having Meira as a bunkmate. She couldn’t stop talking about how they needed to claim two beds right next to each other “the very minute” the bus arrived on the grounds and how much fun they would have during the BEST summer ever because they could spend every minute together.

The truth was, Dassi struggled in school and had her challenges socially as well. She had friends, but not too many, and none who were very close. So when Meira had joined her class at the beginning of the year and the two girls hit it off, I was thrilled. Here was a girl who didn’t just make space for my daughter. She genuinely seemed to enjoy spending time with her.

Or so I thought.

Looking back, there were probably more than a few subtle hints pointing to a lopsided relationship between our girls. There were those last-minute playdate cancellations when Meira begged off for one wobbly reason or another. And then there was one Sunday morning when the girls were at the kitchen table, elbows deep in construction paper, macaroni, glitter, and glue.

“Do you think I can go home now?” Meira asked me, not half an hour after she had arrived.

“Honey, you just got here,” I answered, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.

“I know, but I decided I want to go home,” Meira replied with all the logic and candor of an unreadable ten-year-old. “Can you please just call my mother to come and get me?” she implored. I had promptly written off the whole incident in my mind as a “Meira-just-having-an-off day” thing.

That this was a pink flag pointing to trouble in paradise really did not register. I didn’t leave much time for contemplating preteen drama. So nothing prepared me for this request.

Meira’s trying to make new friends and build new relationships, and Dassi is getting in the way.

In one fell swoop, my own daughter’s summer had been irrevocably altered to suit Meira’s needs.

In what universe was it okay for Mrs. Taub to pull strings at the camp and have another girl reassigned to a bunk where she would be a total outlier? I will concede that Dassi may have wanted more of Meira’s attention than she was willing — or able — to give. It took a few more years for Dassi to find her social footing and cultivate friendships with more balance and sensitivity. But back then, weren’t the girls just navigating the bumpy road of preadolescence with all its growing pains and strains? When Mrs. Taub intervened, thinking she was taking action to advocate for her daughter, why was she completely oblivious to the hurt she was going to inflict upon mine?

I don’t remember what I said. I also don’t remember the dreaded call that came from the camp office, nor how the drama of that summer resolved. I do remember that Dassi came home happy at the end of that summer and seemed fine after all the bunk drama. In fact, the circle of her friends had widened considerably over the summer, and those dreaded after-camp-and-before-school weeks were populated with an assortment of new faces.

Meira was still a frequent visitor to our home, but not the sun around which Planet Dassi revolved. The girls were assigned to different classes the next year and that change in geography, along with a change in interests and friend groups, led to a permanent cooling-off in the realm of Team Dassi and Meira.

(As for the nitty-gritty details of what exactly happened that fateful summer at camp, it’s not only my memory that’s fuzzy. “Ma, I have nooooo clue,” was Dassi’s nonchalant answer when I asked her a while back if she wound up switching bunks that year. “But speaking of camp, would you know where those cute plastic shelves are in the basement?” she continued in the same breath. This was a girl who had clearly put the past behind her.)

It’s been a long time since this all happened, and to my mind, I had long since laid down my arms. I was sure that this particularly sharp hatchet had undergone burial, interred in the cemetery of miserable mommy memories. Besides, I’m really not the type to hold a grudge.

Of course, it’s helpful that I don’t run into Mrs. Taub much anymore. The Taubs moved to the other side of town a few years ago, and when the two of us do bump grocery carts in the supermarket, I manage to squeak out a lackluster “hi” before moving on. It’s also been helpful that Dassi moved on, too. She became GO head at a prestigious Bais Yaakov and was accepted to a top-tier “great-for-the-shidduch-résumé” seminary where she is now striving and thriving. I’m happy to say that making and keeping friends is a skill that now comes easily to her.

This whole unpleasant soap opera would have remained consigned to the annals of history if not for a chance encounter during a recent vacation. There I was, standing near the drive of our hotel, waiting for an Uber, when Mrs. Taub came breezing up the walkway. For a moment, we were deer-in-the-headlights bewildered as our eyes locked and our brains struggled to create context.

In a blink, Mrs. Taub recovered her bearings. “How ARE you? It’s been ages!” she exclaimed, loud and high-pitched. The greeting was followed by a cheery, no-time-to-interrupt barrage of questions: “Are you staying here, too? Can you believe that? How are things? How’s Dassi doing? How about we grab a coffee and catch up?”

Suddenly, long-dormant hurt feelings flew into reflex mode. What followed was an instinctual reaction, fueled by a heaping dose of emotional muscle memory.

First, “urgent matters” on my cell phone began to consume my immediate attention. My face reflected grave concern as I nodded intermittently at the dark, empty screen that I had glued to my ear.

Then, it was time to make a quick getaway. I managed to mutter something indecipherable to Mrs. Taub as I made a beeline down the driveway to the sidewalk, leaving virtual snowflakes in my wake. (My apologies, Mr. Uber Driver.)

Truth be told, I’m not entirely proud of my less-than-cordial reaction.

Part of me wishes that I could go back to that hotel driveway and ask Mrs. Taub how she could rewrite the narrative of what happened that fateful summer.  There are clearly vestiges of hurt on the chalkboard of my memory while her slate has been successfully erased clean. Otherwise, what could account for her stunned reaction to my icy reception when she attempted to reconnect?

Given that actions have consequences — and those consequences may be unpleasant when actions are hurtful — why did my starkly obvious cold shoulder take her by surprise? How could it have gone any other way?

With the passage of time and a healthy dose of clear-eyed introspection, I suppose it could have. And maybe it should have. Dassi, the protagonist in this drama, had clearly had moved on.

Why hadn’t I?

I can only think it’s because, as caretakers of our children, we are the self-appointed guardians not only of their physical aches and pains, but of their emotional bruises as well. Their hurts become our hurts, and those often linger long after the kids have healed. Our resilient kids brush off the dust off “playground hurts” and get back to the business of playing.

Us? It may take a little longer to get back in the game.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 941)