You always told me I’m an amazing person. Recently, though, I’ve been doubting it

Dear Mommy and Tatty,

This is a letter from your daughter. You know, the beautiful one, the smart one, the outgoing one. The one who did well in school, was always surrounded by friends, and had a great GO job. The one who got accepted to the seminary of her choice, who aced her way through college, and who landed her dream job.

The one who has always managed to walk the narrow line between tzniyus and trendy without slipping off. The one who everyone teased about how she would be “the first one in her grade to get engaged.” The one who didn’t have to carry any of society’s harsh labels: isn’t overweight, doesn’t take any medication, and who isn’t the sibling to someone who is struggling religiously. The one who always loved to play mommy, dollhouse, and kallah.

The one who’s still single.

You always told me I’m an amazing person.

Recently, though, I’ve been doubting it.

I’m slowly starting to become envious of my friends who are already having their second or third child. Does this make me a bad person? I’d like to think not. It’s just hard, really hard, to leave another wedding, alone, or hear about another classmate having a baby.

Don’t get me wrong — I love to hear good news, and eagerly partake in everyone’s simchahs. But that smile you see? Sometimes it’s made of plaster.

People tell me to stop being picky, to lower my expectations, that the guy I’m looking for doesn’t exist. I don’t want to believe that. I can’t believe that. It’s known that 40 days before a child is conceived it’s declared Above who the child will marry. I know there’s someone out there for me. I just haven’t found him yet.

Mommy, Tatty, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you put so much time and effort, not to mention emotions, into all of the shidduchim that are redt. I’m sorry it feels that sometimes the suggestions don’t come at all.

Trust me, I didn’t choose this. Not for me, and not for you. As hard as it is for me to be single after all these years of hoping and praying, it’s only made harder still by watching the excited anticipation drain from your face when I come home from yet another date and regretfully shake my head no.

When I daven, I don’t only daven for me, but I also daven for you. I daven that you should see only nachas from your children, and that you should be zocheh to walk them down the aisle, b’karov.

I don’t know what to tell you anymore. Watching my pain reflected on your faces only makes it harder to handle, and sometimes it’s easier to pretend it doesn’t exist. Sometimes it’s easier to joke about the convenience of rent-free living and coming home to a cooked dinner every night.

However, deep down, we both know this is a pretense, a mask donned in place of my crying that I’m more than ready for the responsibilities of wife and homemaker.

I don’t know what G-d’s ultimate plans are; however, I’m 100 percent certain I have a place in them. And, as hard as it is to imagine, I believe my husband has a place in them, as well.

Until then, hugs and kisses. It’s hard for me to talk about this in person, because I feel like a castoff from society, and I know that, to some degree, you feel the same way.

So instead of talking to you, I’ll talk to my Heavenly Father. I’ll daven for you, and I know you’re davening for me. Please know how much I appreciate all the endless time you put into my shidduchim. Always remember how much I love you, and how much I want to make you proud.

I love you forever.

Your Single Daughter

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 733)