***

The kitchen isn’t my zone like my little home clinic is, but after all this time, I’ve become pretty good at making Shabbos. Lists on Tuesday. Shopping on Wednesday. Cooking on Thursday. Put up the cholent and prepare the fresh salads on Friday.

Yom Tov stills throws me for a loop, but my friend Miriam, bless her, insists that that’s nothing to do with my background. “Making Yom Tov throws everyone for a loop,” she tells me.

I’m starting to plan ahead, though. Kugels this week — broccoli, carrot, apple-cranberry. Potato kugel I make on occasion; Moshe loves it, but I’ve never developed a taste for it, somehow, in the seven years since I closed the door on another life and became a Jew.

“Big order this week.” Yocheved, Moshe’s youngest, comes up behind me. I startle; how does she do that so quietly? I notice that her feet are bare. A long, colorful skirt swishes around her ankles.

“Right. I figured I’d start the Yom Tov cooking.” I know there’s something up with Yocheved, something that makes her different from her sisters, her friends. She’s not a rebel, not exactly, but not… not typical, in a way that I struggle to define. Maybe because I’m not exactly typical myself.

“What’s this?” Yocheved asks, picking up the large jar of moisturizer that I picked up on my way home.

I study her face; why’s she asking? Is she curious? Antagonistic? Does the fact that I practice reflexology annoy her, interest her, intrigue her?

Her eyes are blank.

“It’s the cream I use for treatments,” I explain. “In reflexology, you apply gentle pressure to specific points on the foot… Different areas connect to different parts of the body, and the treatment relaxes and normalizes the body…” I stop. I sound like a textbook. But Yocheved’s eyes flicker with something — interest? I haven’t seen her look like that in… a while.

“So you do this thing on the foot and it helps anything?” she asks.

“It has an effect on the whole body, yes.” I look at the shopping bags, and back at Yocheved. Do I sit down and talk? Continue unpacking? I want to keep moving, I’d planned to start cooking already, but what if she’s hurt? I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’ve been married to Moshe for almost three years, but it’s still so sensitive. I wonder if it will ever feel simple.

Kugels. Yocheved.

I sit. “So the thing with reflexology…” I begin.

There’s a knock, and the front door swings open. Moshe’s home.

Yocheved’s face shutters. She lets the jar drop, it clatters towards me, and I catch it reflexively. By the time I look up again, she’s gone, disappeared as swiftly and silently as she’s come.

***

At times like this, I wonder how I ever got so lucky.

A Shabbos table. A husband. A family… well, a family of sorts; Moshe’s married children, a sprinkling of grandchildren, a son home from yeshivah… and Yocheved. Of course, Yocheved.

I’d invited the marrieds thinking it would be nicer for everyone; Yocheved’s been so unpredictable recently. But she’s sitting silent as ever, brooding over her soup bowl, and my mind slides away from the lucky, lucky, lucky loop and wonders: will I ever get things right with her? Or is this nothing to do with me at all?

Moshe begins to sing, his son-in-law Zevi joins in, tenor and baritone merging in perfect harmony. I close my eyes. Menuchah v’simchah, ohr layehudim… the tune, the words, the atmosphere; the smell of roast chicken and broccoli kugel, everything — it’s Shabbos and joy and exquisite harmony and just… something bigger, something soul. What is there not to love?

The song ends and I touch back down to earth.

“Thank you, Moshe, everyone. That was beautiful,” I say heartily. Maybe too heartily, because Moshe’s daughter Sara looks at me a little uncertainly, and two of the grandchildren are giggling. Because of me?

Moshe gives me an understanding smile and a nod. He understands, and the self-consciousness dissipates again in a stream of gratitude.

One of the little ones starts to cry. His parents look flustered, juggling twin babies and a toddler.

“Yossi! Come and show Zaidy your parshah sheet,” Moshe calls. The crying stops instantly. I throw Moshe an admiring look; he’s so on the ball, handling the grandchildren and everyone with ease and expertise.

“Thanks, Ta,” Miri, Yossi’s mother, says gratefully. “He’s just overtired… and my hands are full.”

“Literally,” Sara quips. “Want me to take one of the twins?”

“Thanks a mill.”

Miri deposits one squirming baby in her sister’s arms. The table settles back to some semblance of calmness. Yocheved pours more croutons into her bowl and scowls into it.

“Oh! I wanted to ask you,” Sara says, turning to me. I wished they wouldn’t do that so blatantly, that awkward not calling me anything. Moshe had hoped that his children would call me Ma, but I understood them; that wouldn’t be happening. But what was wrong with Aunt? Or even my name, Rus Yaffa. I just hate this awkward no-name business; it makes me feel like a nonentity.

“Did Mrs. Sternlicht reach out to you? The principal of the school where I work?”

Color rushes into my cheeks. Yes, she had, but I hadn’t planned to share it just yet… or like this. So publicly…

Moshe looks up from Yossi’s parshah questions and gives me a questioning look. I feel torn.

“I wanted — I was planning to tell you, later on,” I say, looking at him instead of at Sara. “But I guess —”

I turn back to the table. Of course, all the grandchildren are miraculously quiet. Nothing spills, no one cries. I can’t really wiggle out of it now.

“She called me today, yes,” I say.

“Oh, really? I’m so happy!” Sara shifts the baby to her other arm and leans forward. “I told them I could really recommend you, it’s really a special invitation, they’re very picky who they ask to come in…”

“Come in for what?” Miri asks.

Sara gestures towards me, as if to say, go on, it’s your news.

I let a tiny sigh escape — I’d hoped to tell Moshe privately, not make a grand announcement to his children like this — but what can I do?

“Mrs. Sternlicht called. The principal of the Bais Yaakov where Sara teaches. She asked me to speak at the pre-Rosh Hashanah assembly. The topic is crowning Hashem as our King. Isn’t that just so beautiful?” My tone warmed. I loved the topic from the moment the principal had told it to me. Crowning Hashem as King. Our King. Making it personal, real, vivid. What a theme. What a zechus. And me, little me, as the guest speaker. Could this really be happening?

Miri and Sara are nodding. “Right, it’s a sweet theme.”

“So, what will you tell them? Have you thought about it yet?”

“Not really. She only just called me today.” I turn to Moshe. “I’ll need help preparing, to be honest. I have no idea where to start.”

“Of course I’ll help you. It’s a beautiful topic,” Moshe strokes his beard. “Of course, the natural starting point would be the pesukim from Mussaf of Rosh Hashanah itself, Malchuyos…”

I smile at Moshe. I knew he would do this; it’s what I liked most about him from our very first meeting. The depth, the knowledge. Always something to share, something Torah, real, truth, purity.

Sara looks at Miri and clears her throat. “Ta, that sounds really nice, but I think the girls will be more interested in, you know, hearing a story.” She looks back at me. “You know, how you came to find out about Yiddishkeit, your journey, all that. Not sources and Chazals, that’s what they learn in class every day. The guest speaker thing — it’s usually something different, more… personal.”

Personal? I’m confused. “You mean, I should tell them about the class I went to in the Chabad house? Before I was Jewish? Is it really that interesting?”

“Sure,” Miri says. “It’s interesting because, you know, you chose this life, to keep the Torah, everything. These girls… they’re born into it, it’s fascinating for them to hear how you chose it, why…”

Yocheved looks up, sharply. “Yeah, the teachers all love that. Trying to prove that if we weren’t born into it, we’d choose it, too. For sure. Obviously. No question.” Her voice drips bitterness.

The table is deathly silent. I look at Moshe, calm, dignified Moshe, the one whose eloquence and breadth of knowledge and pure Torah truth never cease to amaze me. But for once, even he seems to have nothing to say.

***

When I turn on my phone after Shabbos, it dings instantly. Lindsay sent me a message earlier.

Hi Mom. Change of plans, Ruby has a dance recital practice tomorrow so we’ll come over Tues instead if that works?

Sure it works. I’ll make it work, because they’re my grandchildren after all, even if something stronger than blood, thicker than water, divides us.

I guess I’m lucky that Lindsay’s a good daughter. She dutifully brings the kids to visit, once a month, sometimes twice. Even though the hour-plus drive crosses so much more than just miles. Even though she hardly recognizes her mother anymore, beneath a stiff wig and long sleeves and skirts.

It’s more than Jay does, anyway. I’m lucky if he texts me once a year. Where is he now, the Rockies? How do I not even know where my son is living?

Enough. If I go down that rabbit hole, I don’t know when I’ll get back out.

Moshe would tell me to think about his family — our family. But it’s not ours; not really, I have him and I’m everlastingly grateful for that, but the children are his, the grandchildren are his, and while I can cook for them, and host them, and make the house into a home again, or whatever Moshe likes to say a wife does for the family — they’ll never be mine.

And yet Lindsay, and Jay, and Amy, Ryan, Emily… They aren’t exactly mine either anymore.

I think of Emily. Lindsay’s youngest. Her straight, wispy blonde hair and startling green eyes — bequest of an unknown ancestor. The rest of us are solidly blue. Top of the class, nose in a book — Lindsay alternately raves over her academic prowess and groans over her lack of interest in dance club and football and all the stuff that Amy, her older daughter, lives for.

“She’s a bookworm, that girl,” Lindsay says about Emily, her mild frustration tinged with pride, and I think, she’s a truth seeker, like her grandma.

But to Lindsay, I just nod, and smile, and I don’t say a word.

***

Tuesday’s visit means jugs of juice, bowls of potato chips and jelly beans, some homemade rugelach for Ryan.

“Hi, Mom. Kids, say hello to Grandma.” Lindsay shepherds them inside, shaking her head as she always does at the array of pictures on the wall. She doesn’t comment on the most recent family wedding, ten children, several spouses, and dozens of grandchildren, with Moshe and myself seated center with the chassan and kallah — even though it’s a new print, and I see her eyes linger and her nostrils flare slightly as she takes it in.

“So, Amy, I hear you had a recital practice?” I say, launching in. I have a method; asking each grandchild about the stuff that’s important to them, trying to show them that Grandma might be a galaxy away from them, old and different and Jewish, can you imagine — but that she’s still a grandmother, still there for them with potato chips and jelly beans and interest in their lives.

“Yeah. Booo-ring,” Amy pronounces languidly. “The group is babyish. I want to go up but they won’t let me until after the recital.”

“And when’s that?”

Amy’s run out of steam. She pops earbuds in her ears and shrugs.

“Amy!” Lindsay presses her lips together. “Sorry, Mom. Teenagers these days. I mean, she’s 11 years old, but…”

“That’s okay,” I say quickly. I look over at Ryan. “What about you, big guy, what’s doing at your club?” It’s kickboxing, I think, but the kid changes hobbies so fast, it’s not worth taking a risk.

“Yeah. It’s good. There’s a new series on TV and the second episode is tonight, so Mom said we can watch it, but we have to leave early enough.” He looks up at me hopefully. I want to laugh. I also want to cry.

Emily gives me a small smile. She’s all of seven years old, but she seems to understand more than all the others, including her own mother.

“How’s school, Emily?”

“Good. Great.” She shrinks a little. Emily prefers to watch, not to talk. When she gets really comfortable, she gets up, takes a walk around the room, fingering the seforim, eyeing the silver cabinet, a strange hunger in her eyes.

My Emily. My hope.

I suddenly want to say something, anything, that will bring the conversation to my life, my world.

“Do you know, they’ve invited me to speak in a school tomorrow,” I say. “Imagine that!”

“That’s wonderful, Mom,” Lindsay says. She taps purple fingernails against her phone screen. “Emily gave a speech at assembly last week. She was chosen to represent her entire class. Right, Ems?”

Emily gives a shy smile. “Right. We had to speak about someone who inspires us, and I chose Martin Luther King Jr.”

Martin Luther King Jr. My heart aches. It’s a good choice, maybe even a natural one for a little girl. But oh, how I wished I could tell her about Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel, Leah. Esther Hamalkah.

But this is my world, not hers. And yet, she’s so… wanting, open, this granddaughter of mine. Surely I can hope…

“That’s nice,” I say. “I’m sure it was a great speech, Emily.”

She shrugs, uncomfortable in the spotlight.

“What are you going to speak about, Grandma?” she asks, eyes bright and curious.

“Me?” I look into her eyes; pools of green light. The words tumble from my lips without thought. “The topic is, making G-d into our King.”

Making G-d into… wait, what did I just say?!

Lindsay looks up, sharply, pressing her lips together.

Stop, Rus Yaffa. Damage control. You can’t say things like that. What do you think, Emily will ask, you’ll answer, and she’ll convert on the spot? She’s seven years old. She’s not — you need to stop looking at her like that.

And yet…

“I think it’s time to go, we have a long drive ahead,” Lindsay says, trying to sound regretful. I’m not fooled.

They leave, and I’m left feeling empty, emptier than the bowl of potato chip crumbs Emily left behind.

I should clean up, throw away the plastic cups and put the juice back in the fridge, but instead, I feel an urge to flee the room. I go review my speech instead.

***

Standing in the doorway of the auditorium just behind Mrs. Sternlicht, the chit-chat of a couple hundred girls bouncing off the walls and ceilings reminds me uncannily of an aviary. I feel strangely nervous.

Mrs. Sternlicht mounts the stage, holds up a hand, imposing, regal. Instant silence hits. I hesitate at the foot of the stage steps; do I follow? Wait there? I shift from foot to foot. Across the room, I spot Sara, and my eyes latch onto her, hungry for a familiar face.

“I’m excited to introduce our incredible guest speaker, Mrs. Rus Yaffa Levine, who is a giyores and a very special person. She has very kindly agreed to come and share some chizuk with all of you at this special time of year.”

The girls clap. I find myself climbing the steps, taking the microphone from Mrs. Sternlicht’s outstretched hand. I have my notes but how do I unfold them one-handed? My cheeks burn.

Calm down, Rus Yaffa. They’re just children. Teenagers. You’re a grown woman, an adult, you have a beautiful speech prepared.

I juggle mic and papers for an awkward minute, before managing to get everything in order. Self-conscious, I jump in too fast, forgetting the crucial pause and eye contact I’d planned between the greeting and the main part of the speech.

“Hello, girls. Today, I am grateful and privileged to be able to speak to you about the topic of Crowning Hashem as our King.” I stutter to a stop and gulp in a breath. It echoes over the mic and there’s a titter. Ouch.

Mrs. Sternlicht taps my elbow and lowers the mic a little. That’s better.

I get into the flow of my speech. I know it by heart; the notes are for reassurance only. It’s an intricate devar Torah that Moshe helped me to prepare, with a nice mashal and nimshal and some penetrating insights that I personally found so moving.

Personal, Sara had insisted, was what the school were looking for, so I make sure to share how these ideas have inspired me, some of them had helped me through my first Rosh Hashanah as a Jew, others are new to me this year, but will surely inspire me to greater heights in my tefillos this year.

But the girls don’t seem to take to the ideas that I recount so passionately. There are shuffles and whispers and the occasional giggle. They don’t seem engaged, but I forge onward, trying to focus on a spot at the back of the room and ignore the glazed eyes and the way the teachers seem on tenterhooks, trying to keep everyone in order.

And then I finish, and there’s an expectant pause, and the crowd of girls looks at each other, at me, and somehow they seem confused.

“Are there… any questions?” I ask, wondering if I hadn’t delivered the conclusion to the devar Torah clearly enough.

More shuffles. Girls look at one another. Teachers move closer to the rows of seated girls, trying to maintain silence.

One girl, smack in the center of the room, raises her hand.

“We were wondering…” she says, and her friends nod and wordlessly cheer her on. “We were wondering how you — how you actually became fru — Jewish, in the first place. Like, what made you decide…?”

There are nods all around, a collective show of interest, even as some of the teachers are shaking their heads and trying to look disapproving.

I glance over at Sara and she looks away and suddenly I realize… this is all they ever wanted from me.

The story. The sensationalism. Not the Torah. Not what sets my soul on fire, day after day, not what I so long to relay to others: The passion. The joy. The ecstasy of the treasure I discovered so late, the treasure that somehow, these girls just take for granted.

They want to hear the sordid details; life pre-geirus, what I did, how I lived. They want to hear how I struggled, the questions, the challenges, the ripping apart of a life and home and… and everything… the way I tore myself to pieces, to the very seams of my existence and identity, and rebuilt something totally new, on shaky foundations of nothing at all.

They want to hear, and sigh, and wonder, and walk away and gush over the private details of my life, so that they can… what? Feel good that they have been born into it? Feel relief that they are not forced to choose, to give up their identities and families and homes and very essence, in order to trade them for the truth?

“I… it’s a long story. Maybe for another time,” I mumble. The mic spits my words out to the disappointed audience and I can’t bear to look for the reaction.

Sara was right.

The smile I’ve worked so hard to plaster on cracks in two as I stumble from the stage. Ten steps have never taken such an eternity.

***

Some people make lists in categories: shopping, to-do, work-related. I prefer to dump everything on one page, in whatever order it comes into my head. Which is why I have things like, reschedule A.N.’s appointment and review September invoices jammed among buy whip topping, make desserts, and kreplach recipe.

I run a pen absently down the side of the page, scanning for anything I’ve missed. I’d wanted to stop working already yesterday, but there were just too many people I’d promised to squeeze in before Yom Tov, so here I am, doing the dreaded juggling act and feeling like my mind is pulling in a zillion directions. I need to sit and do yoga or something during this precious one-hour lunch break. Not make shopping lists and start cooking.

There’s a shadow hovering near my left shoulder. Yocheved. What’s she doing here? I look up, make eye contact, smile in what I hope is an inviting way. She smiles back, uncertainly.

I cap my pen. “What’s up, Yocheved?”

She looks relieved at the invitation. “I wanted to ask you…” she blurts. “The stuff that you do. The reflexology. Maybe you can teach me how it works? How to do it?”

My first thought is I should have seen this coming. The questions, the interest, the way she somehow lost her edginess when asking about my work. But — me, teach her? One-on-one? I’m nervous. What will Moshe think? Sure, he encouraged me to build a relationship with his children. And he’s supportive of what I do, says it’s completely acceptable and typical in the community, even though I studied it in another era, another lifetime. But something about Yocheved scares me. That I’ll say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing. That something innocent could go badly wrong.

“I…” I draw a breath. Something dark flits across Yocheved’s face; she’s regretting her vulnerability.

“That’s such a nice idea,” I say, finally. “How about we discuss it more after Yom Tov?”

***

“I think it will be good for her.”

I stop in the middle of heaping arugula salad onto my plate. “Really? You don’t think it’s a little… strange?”

“Strange that she’s interested in reflexology?”

I shrug. It’s not exactly what I meant, but…

Moshe gives me a small, sad smile. “I’m just grateful she’s interested in something. Something healthy and productive, I mean. I worry…”

We’ve never really talked about Yocheved before.

“I don’t know what it is, when it happened,” he says, shaking his head. “She used to be… everything used to be so normal, so okay. And then…” He spreads his hands, wide and helpless. “She’s lost her… her interest. I think that’s what it is. And she’s not doing anything wrong, anything terrible, but she’s… she’s not here with us anymore.”

I nod, silently. I know this. I see it too.

“Maybe we just need to give her time. She lost her mother, and then — you know. We got married. She’s had a turbulent few years.”

Moshe hunches over his food. He suddenly looks old. “I know. And I do give her time. But I keep wondering if I should be doing more.”

“But what more…?”

“I don’t know. Therapy? A mentor? Ich veis nisht, an outlet, a job, something?” His eyes dull and then lighten. “But you say she’s interested in training with you. It could be just the right thing. It’s a healthy outlet, something that interests her, and you’re a great mentor and role model for her. I’d love for you to spend more time together, for her to feel that she can confide in you…”

He looks at me and there’s a pride in his eyes and I feel so small, and so wrong, accepting the accolades.

“I’m not a mentor. Or a role model,” I say. Memories of the disastrous speech in the school flood my cheeks with heat. “I’m just a… I’m new to Yiddishkeit. I’m a reflexologist, I work with people’s feet… it’s nothing. Not really.”

“You can impact their souls, too. And you do.” Moshe says it simply.

I push the salad around my plate and shake my head. “I don’t think so,” I say. “But I’ll teach Yocheved what I know. I’ll spend time with her. It can’t hurt, I guess.”

“And I think it could be life-changing for her,” Moshe says, so much hopeful conviction in his voice that I don’t bother contradicting.

“We can daven, right?”

He nods fervently. He takes a forkful of grilled chicken, then stops. He looks to one side, into the distance, talks to something far away. “Sometimes, I just imagine this all passing, you know? Yocheved finding her way, settling down… I picture myself walking her to the chuppah and the joy in this whole difficult parshah being over…”

“Me, too,” I say, without thinking.

His head snaps back to face me. “You dream of Yocheved’s chuppah?”

“Not Yocheved’s. Not…” I swallow. Should I verbalize it? Can I? The dreams, the longing, the desperate desire that bubbles up inside me, too forceful and too compelling to resist?

“I dream it for Emily. She’s so drawn to truth, to learning. I wonder whether…”

Whether she will do it. Follow me into the pastures of Torah, the beauty of Yiddishkeit. Whether she’ll come through for me, my final chance, my only hope of having my own share, my own, true offspring in this world.

Moshe looks serious. “You’ve been hoping for a while.”

“Desperately.” My throat is dry. I suddenly realize how badly I need him to understand this dream, this longing. That it should have a chance of blooming to reality. “I think… I think that she wants it, too. Obviously, it’s too soon… too young… to know anything for certain…”

“You know we can’t suggest it. Push it in any way. It isn’t…”

“Allowed. I know.” I already regret saying anything. “I’ve never spoken about it before. It’s just — a dream I have.”

A Jewish granddaughter. Family of my own, not just being an addendum to Moshe’s.

“Rus,” Moshe says, and his voice is gentle. “If Emily — if her soul was at Har Sinai, she will be drawn, she will come to it herself. Like you did.”

My heart claws at my rib cage. The words burn inside me. It hurts so much to hope.

“Someone… needs to plant a seed,” I whisper.

“A seed, you’ve planted long ago.” Moshe smiles, trying to soften the impact of his words.

But nothing can soften what he means to say. Nothing at all.

***

Divrei Koheles ben Dovid, melech b’Yerushalayim…

The chant is becoming familiar, seven years on, and I settle into my seat, grateful for the chance to sit and follow along without the pressure of having to recite the words of the tefillos fast enough to keep up.

And Koheles! I have the English translation open in front of me, the pithy wisdom of the words, the poetry of it all, how it takes my breath away every time.

Everything has its season, and there is a time for everything under the heaven. I think with wonder how Yiddishkeit and the Torah truly has it all: Everything belongs, everything plays a part, just as long as it’s in the right time and the right place.

Every middah, every emotion, every action, every state.

A time to plant, and a time to uproot… a time to destroy, and a time to build.

So maybe it’s not about right and wrong. Maybe there are… times, periods, experiences in which one has a right to come forward, draw someone near, and times in which one needs to step back, even as their dreams unravel before their eyes, and let go.

A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing. A time to keep silent. A time to speak.

I think of the school, the hopes I’d had of influencing the masses, sharing my passionate thoughts. Then I think of Yocheved and the tentative hope in her eyes when she’d asked me to teach her reflexology. Wanting to spend time with me. Moshe’s words: you impact their souls. Maybe there are different ways, different times, to share the fire that burns in my heart.

And then I think of Emily. The emotions well up, roar, and I wait until they ebb and subside.

I bow my head in the face of the words of the wisest of all men.

***

They visit on Chol Hamoed. I wondered if I should try to reschedule or not, but with Amy’s dance practices and the football club and kickboxing and that new TV show, whatever it is, my grandchildren’s schedule is so jam-packed these days I guess I should be grateful they visit at all.

I prepare the usual refreshments, add a plate of leftover Yom Tov desserts, and bring it all out into the succah. I tell myself it’s because it’s quiet out there, cool and breezy and pretty and a change of scenery.

I lead them outside proudly, maybe too proudly. Amy and Ryan look at me, then at Lindsay, wide-eyed. Emily just stares: at the walls, the decorations, tilting her head up to the sechach, cracks of sky. I try not to watch her.

“So, what’s new in school, Amy?” I ask.

The succah door creaks behind me. Yocheved stands, framed in October sunlight, holding a mug of something steamy.

“Oh — you’re out here,” she mumbles, retreating.

I half-stand. “Yocheved?”

She turns.

I’m not sure what I want to say, I just know I want to say something. “I — we’ll be done soon. If you wanted to sit out here.”

Something flashes over her face. Embarrassment, maybe, that she’s been caught in the act? Wanting to sit outside, inhale the atmosphere, lean into the succah’s embrace…

I feel a rush of warmth. I know this; I know her. Yocheved may not be my daughter, she isn’t my flesh and blood at all, but I feel her and Moshe is right; I can be there for her despite it all.

I follow her outside, signaling to Lindsay that I’ll just be a moment. “And maybe, I can start telling you a little about the work I do. Reflexology. I can demonstrate more after Yom Tov, I can teach it to you in more depth, but for now… we can talk, if you have any questions…”

Her face is inscrutable. Then, unexpectedly, she smiles.

A time to be silent. A time to speak. A time to embrace.

My heart warms as I watch her disappear into the house again.

And then I am back in the succah, stoking embers of conversation with my daughter who is a stranger, with three children who belong to me and yet don’t belong here at all. I look at Lindsay, at her bleached white-blond hair. She’s my daughter, and yet she isn’t; she’s my flesh and blood and yet I’ve crossed a universe and left her behind.

Her, and Amy and Ryan and Emily, all of them.

If they would want to join me, they would be turned away. Three times. The thought rears through my mind again, echoing as it has done since my conversation with Moshe. How it would slice me apart for that to happen, for them, any of them, to be deterred from joining me.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

Nothing will stop her if she’s meant to. If her soul belongs here, under the canopy of the Divine. If this is where she belongs, she will find her way.

But I… I can’t be the one to bring her here.

The thought aches inside of me, but it’s true, and it’s real, and I know what I need to do.

Lindsay shivers, patting futilely at her bare arms. “Bbrrrr. It’s cold out here.”

The succah? Cold? There’s a little heater and the whole wooden structure is so cozy, colorful, filled with light and love.

Amy nods. “Yeah. Can we sit inside, Grandma?”

“Hey, I think the soo-kah is nice,” Emily says. “The decorations are pretty.”

“Yes, well, we’ve seen it now,” Lindsay says, a trifle impatiently.

Something flits through my mind; a Gemara that Moshe once quoted. …and the nations of the world will complain, we did not get the opportunity to fulfill the mitzvos… and Hashem will offer them the mitzvah of succah. They will build their succahs, but when the sun blazes down, they will not withstand it, and they will kick the succah and leave…

Lindsay stands, picking up the water pitcher, and I’m filled with a sudden, intense feeling of regret for what is never going to be.

And at the same time, a strong, sure certainty of what I have to do.

“I actually enjoy sitting out here,” I say. “But you’re right, you’ve seen it now, and it’s probably best that we sit inside.”

I balance the tray of cake and rugelach in one hand and hold open the wooden door with the other. Lindsay sweeps out, Amy trailing behind her, engrossed in her iPad. Emily lingers, eyes wide and thirsty, drinking in the walls, the pictures, the sparkly paper chains.

“Come,” I tell her, taking her hand, and my heart swells with pain and pride and the exquisite agony of letting go.

She looks up at me, trusting, yearning, and I just breathe and relinquish, as my daughter and grandchildren lead the way into my kitchen, and I reach back into the succah and gently close the door.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 931)