Listen, it’s your first Yom Tov back home as a married lady. It’s normal to be nervous. She casts a quick glance at Menachem, who seems to have dozed off, as doubt gnaws at her.
“Why would Hashem want me to suffer so much humiliation from being with my sister-in-law all Yom Tov? I mean, you know how small I feel next to her, Shmu—she’s an impossible act to follow!”
Once you passed a certain age, he maintained, learning was an indulgence to be reserved for the early hours of the morning, and a little more at night — before, or after, one worked up a sweat to earn one’s daily bread. How could I argue with that? He had given me all I had.
“Crazy! Who ever heard of a chassidishe meidel arranging things with a shadchan by herself? Her parents know nothing — she just goes ahead and meets a boy? And to a what? A moderne lawyer who wears a pink shirt, probably! You can forget it, Rikki. You — can — for — get — it!”
What was it about this woman that unnerved him? Was it her pride in her job? Her unfamiliarity with the obvious? The hunger to do, to accomplish, outside of her home?
Davey’s eyes flicker to my right sleeve and I narrow my eyes as he vacillates over my fate. Is there anything left of me, or have I been reduced to a cripple?
