“When I went to people for Shabbos, they showed me something completely different from my mom’s version”

“This isn’t going to work,” Tamar said, frowning, as she studied herself in the mirror.

Marissa looked at her daughter’s reflection, which always reminded her so much of Yaakov: dark, deep-set eyes, lanky build, strong chin bespeaking strong opinions. The dress she was wearing looked nice enough to Marissa — a dark print with some interesting detail on the sleeves.

“It fits fine, doesn’t it?” she asked. “Why won’t it work?”

Tamar shrugged. “It just doesn’t,” she said shortly. “I know.”

She marched back to the dressing room to try on the next item in the considerable pile she’d assembled. Marissa tried taking a deep breath, but something inside her felt constricted. She spotted a gray chair off to the side of the mirrors and sank into it.

Tamar emerged again, this time in some sort of tweed set. She scrutinized her reflection. The fabric made Marissa picture a grandpa in suspenders and spectacles with a handkerchief in his pocket. She wondered why a pink-cheeked teenage girl in Yerushalayim would want to dress like a stuffy professor. But Tamar didn’t ask her opinion, so she kept her mouth shut.

Tamar turned sideways and smoothed down the skirt. Then she went back to the dressing room and repeated the charade again. And again. After 20 more minutes sitting there invisible on the gray chair, Marissa finally watched Tamar come out, holding three items in triumph. One was that horrible tweed set.

“Can we pay now?” she asked.

Marissa nodded. She hated shopping, always had. When she was growing up, she’d been able to keep it to a minimum — her wardrobe had consisted of a few pairs of jeans, some sweaters and tees, and one or two nicer pieces. Tamar was a different animal. Even as a little girl in kindergarten, she had evinced this inborn sense of style. As she grew older, she delighted over colors and textures, cuts and trimmings. Marissa found it hard to fathom how someone could actually enjoy riffling through the racks at a clothing store — but here was her own daughter, clearly in her element as she laid down her choices on the counter.

“That’ll be one thousand, eight hundred twenty-eight,” the salesgirl said.

Marissa watched her hand remove the credit card from her wallet and lay it on the counter. So much money, whoa. For a few dresses.

Tamar grabbed the bag with her new purchases and began walking out.

“Thanks, Ima,” she said with sudden warmth. “Can we do the shoe store next?”