“You know what?” I call after Daniel, who’s trying to leave to Maariv.

“Hmmm?”

“I think I’ll invite them for Shabbos, yeah?”

“Yeah, sounds great. Are you up to that? It’s a lot of people.”

I think about this and then decide some things are better done with less thinking. “Totally.”

“Rena, you’re amazing. See you later.”

I quickly text Baila before I can change my mind.

Lady, you, me, your kids, and fine, our husbands. This Shabbos, my place. You in?

I snicker to myself.

My phone pings.

Rena! So excited! I’ll bring chocolate chip cookies, muddy buddies, and my famous lemon pie.

My fingers fly over my phone. Won’t say no to that! Can’t wait!

Well, there you have it. The eight Bermans will be joining us and I’m not mad about it, although I am just a tad nervous about inviting the Berman boys over to my girlie household. And like I said, Baila is a bit of a laid-back parent, very laissez-faire. But hey, I’m not inviting her over so it will be easy, I’m inviting her so she can have a break. And I plan on giving her one.

I spend the next few days cooking, cleaning, shopping, and then shopping some more. We’re a huge crowd. I swipe more times than I want to, but remind myself it’s all Shabbos’s cheshbon. In addition to groceries and treats, I buy my sister her favorite Rum Raisin Revlon lipstick. Because she deserves it, and frankly, once I’m over budget I might as well lean in.

Shlomo can just enjoy our company.

Baila texts me later. “We must catch up. Wait till I tell you about Shlomo’s latest entrepreneurial venture!”

How is she actually excited about this?

I put my phone down without answering her.

When it was the Amazon fidget spinners, we were all excited. But business quickly petered out. Then it was the no-name Native water shoes. That also fizzled out. Then it was a real estate investment for a community near the country that never took off; then he decided to open a sushi joint. Don’t ask about that one.

Always something new, something that will make it big, and my poor sister rides the waves, sometimes up, sometimes down, but always positive and smiling. Which is amazing, im yirtzeh Hashem by me, but also maybe if she was a drop less positive, things would actually change? But what do I know? Daniel doesn’t make rash decisions. Ever. Aside from entering the Powerball, of course.

I come down on Friday to find Daniel locking the china cabinet.

He looks sheepish when he sees me. “I’m sorry, but those Berman kids are a bit… rowdy.”

I would laugh but I hadn’t had coffee yet and that would require an act of superhuman abilities.

“’Kay, do you feel more secure now?” I ask, pouring an unnecessary amount of creamer into my cup. He’s not wrong. The last time we hosted Baila and the fam, we lost three glasses, a china plate, and one window.

He nods. “I really do. ’Kay, heading to Shacharis, then text me a list of last-minute groceries.”

“Will do.”

He’s a good guy, Daniel. I remember a much younger Rena who would find herself sometimes imagining what life would be like if my husband was a bit more exciting, more adventurous, like my sister Baila’s husband. And then, I grew up. And I realized the best thing in the world, the biggest gift I could ask for, was stability. Dependability. Predictability. And any other ability words one can think of.

By the time the Bermans show up in Monsey, the house is gleaming, there’s kugel steaming on the island, and I’m my room, getting ready.

I smile as I listen to Daniel welcoming everyone in.

This was going to be so fun!

Friday night goes better than expected. The kids have the best time, the husbands keep up a running slew of jokes that the rest of us don’t find very funny, but hey, dad jokes are a real thing, and the Berman boys only knock over two houseplants and one ottoman. Daniel raises his eyebrows at me each time, like, ‘See, aren’t you happy I locked away the valuables?’ He’s right, I am happy, but I also kind of wish Baila or Shlomo would actually tell their kids to not play ball inside. But hey, I’m not one to parent someone else’s children, even if they are my nephews. By the time everyone had gone to sleep, Baila and I are curled up on the couch, cracking sunflower seeds and whispering.

“… he decided now he’s selling vitamin supplements,” she says, eyes wide. And I almost choked on a sunflower seed, because was my big sister worried for the first time ever? Does that mean she’s not just going to allow Shlomo to wreak his usual havoc?

I swallow. “Oh, uh, wow. Do you think… will that be, uh, lucrative?”

She blinks, her eyes return to their regular size. “Oy, I shouldn’t be talking about this on Shabbos at all. I think I’m just a bit worried because the boys need braces, and we already refinanced the house when Shlomo lost the sushi place and I’m just a bit overwhelmed. ’Kay, but literally not for Shabbos. Reens, tell me about you! What’s going on? How’s Tammy’s reading going, did that tutor help in the end?”

Of course Baila won’t dwell on her own circumstances for too long: it’s both her strength and her weakness.

I open my mouth to insist we continue this conversation, that she can’t always run away from the hard things, but maybe she’s right, maybe it’s not for Shabbos. I close my mouth.

And so the night passes; we stay up way too late, laughing and giggling and studiously avoiding all tricky topics.

Shabbos morning is a blur of kokosh cake smears and cinnamon bun crumbs and yogurt drips. I decide to play it super cool, and just laugh off the Berman boys’ antics. Baila keeps smiling gratefully at me and I know she appreciates my efforts.

I do say, “Ball outside only, please!” around 12 times, but who’s counting.

After we wash for hamotzi, Baila and I are arranging dips on the lazy Susan, deep in conversation about shidduchim, and how we must find a nice girl for Aunt Penina’s Yaakov, when we hear a crash in the dining room.

I try to take a deep breath, but my heart is beating a million miles a minute and I just keep blessing Daniel for locking up the china. So really, what could it be?

Baila and I exchange a look of horror and then run.

The dining room is chaos. Two Berman boys are crying, Daniel looks absolutely confused, Shlomo is getting to his feet, blustering about being more careful around ten minutes too late, and an armchair is knocked over, resting on my curtains. And my curtains, the ones I saved up for for almost a year, and then ordered custom after months of deliberating over fabrics and lengths, sport a large tear gaping a few inches from the bottom.

Baila has her hand to her mouth. “Omigosh, omigosh, omigosh.”

And then, at long last, she parents her boys.

“Aunt Rena asked you so many times not to play inside. Why? Why can’t you listen? Look what you did! It was irresponsible and wild and just plain chutzaph. Apologize this minute.”

They shamefacedly mumble sorries. I pull my cheek muscles up into a fake smile.

Baila takes a deep breath and turns to me, “Oy, Rena, I— I’m so sorry!”

Sorry? She’s sorry now? What about when she was absolutely ignoring her chaotic children? I exhale and try to ground myself. Now isn’t the time.

I put a hand on her arm. “Bay, let’s not talk about it right now. Come, the food’s getting cold.”

The rest of Shabbos passes in something of an awkward blur. Baila gushes her apologies throughout the seudah, but by the time the meal’s finished, she’s moved on, and when she retires to her room for a nap, her boys are back to their wild ways. Daniel’s not standing for it, though, and he banishes them to the backyard. “If you want to read or play board games, you can stay inside,” he tells them. “But anything with running, jumping, or throwing goes outside.”

Shalosh Seudos is okay. I do my best to make conversation, but I can’t quite bring myself to go back to the warm, gushing conversations we’d had earlier. Why does this happen every time? I love Baila, I really want our families to be close, I know that things are just… things. So why does it feel like I can’t get past this?

After Havdalah I have a quick conference with Daniel. “Just tell her how much it cost and let her take it from there,” he says placidly.

Uch, why does that make me want to throw up?

“What? Yuck, I don’t want her money. They were just so expensive. But her boys need braces!”

Daniel raises his eyebrows. “And so? They acted like lunatics, as usual. And Shlomo and Baila ignored them. As usual.”

“Baila’s overwhelmed,” I snap. “She’s basically a single mom most of the time.”

Daniel just looks at me.

I shrug. I really truly do not know what to do here. I need to say something to Baila, that’s for sure. But what?

I hesitantly venture into the living room, where Baila is flipping through a magazine on the couch. “Hey, Reen, what’s up?”

Involuntarily — I promise — my eyes dart to my beautiful bay window. And my now-not-so-beautiful torn and stained custom drapery.

Baila follows my gaze and winces guiltily. “I bet the cleaners can get the blood out,” she offers, then flashes me a too-bright smile. “And they probably do alterations too, they can stitch up the tear, they’ll look like new.”

“No,” I say loudly. Oh boy, gotta calm down, but the thought of sewn-up curtains — and the ease with which Baila had suggested them — had me shuddering. “No, they won’t look like new, they’ll look like shmattehs, not the curtains we paid $2,500 for less than a year ago. Which maybe you want to help us replace.”

She stares at me. And then stares at me more.

Then she says loudly, “Shloms, I think we better get back tonight instead of staying over. The kids are too hyper.”

So basically, my whole inviting my sister for Shabbos thing to ease her burden has just backfired magnificently.

Should I not have asked, knowing the financial pressure she’s under? But they were expensive. And Baila never steps up, ever. And I grew tired of it.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 925)