Ifingered a gray cardigan with a chess piece design. Looking at the price tag would be an exercise in outrage — but I still had to see. A small flick: $95.90. Relatively cheap. The gray one with question marks was $112. Insanity.

I used to doubt if these items sold and which idiot would ever buy them, but I’ve gone shopping with Sari, seen the receipts. Seen the empty racks and shelves, and heard apologetic sales people, “We sold out.” People really pay this much.

“What do you think?” Elisheva asked. Her smile was too eager. I couldn’t tell her the truth. My sister-in-law obviously had no idea of my attitude toward kids’ clothes if she invited me to tour her soon-to-open children’s boutique.

I looked all around, as if I was taking in the wonder.

“It’s amazing,” I said. And that was the truth, the decor was amazing — clean lines, but rounded edges for softness, fresh colors, big dressing rooms, room for Mommy and kid and carriage, a play area for little kids. The prices were also amazing — in the literal sense.

Elisheva smiled gratefully, and blushed. She started leading me to the back. “I’d love to get your opinion about some samples of white shirts I just got. As a mother of six boys, I’m sure you know what’s best.

I nodded, but, really, just invest in bleach and a good washing machine. And don’t get the cheapest ones, the fabric is too thin and the collars too stiff.

She rummaged in a few boxes in her makeshift back office. “So family gets a 15 percent percent discount off everything, nothing held back, even the stuff that can’t be discounted,” Elisheva said, head in box.

As if I’d ever shop here.

“And if there’s anything you need, want me to get in, or whatever, just let me know.” She looked up and clasped her hands together, childish giddiness. “I love kids, clothes, and family — and it all comes together here.”

She pulled out three shirts. “So this one is a silk cotton blend, with a white on white design—”

“That one,” I cut her off, pointing. Elisheva looked at me for an explanation.

“It’s middle of the road. Happy medium,” I concocted.

“You’re so right!” She seemed pleased.

“Look, I’m meeting a friend for lunch, I’ll talk to you later,” I told her.

She walked me to the double doors. “I’ll see you at the opening.”

Wait, did I have to go to the grand opening? And if I did, I wouldn’t have to buy anything, would I?

“Explain it to me,” I asked Sari over my avocado toast, latte, and croissant.

Sari rolled her eyes, “What’s there to explain? Tell me what you don’t get.”

“I don’t get this spending money on kids’ clothes. Adults, I hear, even if I wouldn’t spend $200 on a Shabbos robe. But an adult can wear it for more than one season. An adult won’t get gaping holes at the elbows and knees after wearing something twice.”

Sari shrugged. “It’s fun, and so cute.” She leaned over and tousled her baby’s “hair.” At three months old, Aliza has pierced ears, multiple bangles, at least two solid gold bracelets, too many headbands, and a pair of moccasins to match each outfit.

“You can do fun and cute at Children’s Place or H&M, even Zara’s I can fargin.” I took a bite out of the croissant. “Elisheva had a stretchie by some company, Italian Treasures, and never mind the dorky name — it was $96! What is that? So the baby can spit up on it? I can do that in Carter’s for $10.”

Sari flared her lip. “Carter’s? Do you want the babysitter to take care of your baby? If you don’t show you care about him, why should some stranger?”

“The babysitter is judging my kid at three months old?”

“Yes. Maybe not consciously, but well-dressed babies are better tended.”

“Says who?”

“Says everyone. Google it.”

“Whatever, fine, not Carter’s. But you still don’t have to spend $96 on a stretchie.”

Sari chewed on her kale-quinoa salad, then poked her fork at me. “If you had girls, you’d get it.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not even getting into the gender roles mess here. Those were all boy sweaters and stretchies I saw. Tell me, what do you buy for your girls each season and what do you pay?”

Sari put her fork down, and made serious thinking faces. “Each girl needs at least three outfits — for a three-day Yom Tov, of course.”

“Just for the record, it’s a two-day Yom Tov this year.”

“I get them four outfits anyway. Because they go to Bnos on Shabbos and they can’t repeat so often, they’ll just look bad and nerdy.”

“Four outfits a season? I don’t get myself four Shabbos outfits a season — tops two.”

“Well, maybe you should.”

“Why? Explain it to me. Forget about my kids, why do I need so many?”

“Y’know, styles change and stuff…” Sari trailed off, like, duh.

“That’s why I get two, why do I need more? How often do I go out?”

“Well, I meet my husband at shul so we can walk home together.”

“So you have four Shabbos coats so you never repeat.”

Sari snorted. “I’m not that crazy.”

“Why is that crazy? It follows the same logic.”

“One Shabbos coat is normal.”

“Because society says so.”

“Yes.”

“‘And if all your friends jump off a bridge, would you jump, too?”

“This is not that.”

“It’s not?”

“Well, I can afford it. And so can you, really, I don’t know what your big deal is.”

“My big deal is the principle. Do you put money in your 401k, extracurricular activities for your kids, tutoring? Or maybe if they’re dressed well enough they’ll coast through life because people will love them.”

“Can we just agree to disagree? We spend our money differently. I enjoy dressing my kids up, you don’t. The end.”

“I like dressing my kids, too. I like when they look cute, but I don’t think the price tag is worth it. They can look just as good at a fraction of your costs. How do you justify the prices?”

Sari sighed. “I don’t have to justify it, everyone else does it. But I hear you, I guess. You do what’s good for you.”

I switched the topic. “Did you read that article about DNA testing in what’s-it-called over Shabbos?”

“Ooh yes, it was so creepy!” Sari started getting excited.

Lunch saved.

“Sheifeleh, what time are we going to Elisheva’s store tomorrow?” Mommy sat at the head of the table, the only place her wheelchair fit.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Mommy said, “Elisheva will im yirtzeh Hashem be busy. She won’t be able to wheel me around and stuff. And besides you have to show support, buy something, y’know.”

“Buy something?” I sputtered. “It’s a boutique. Did you see her prices?”

Mommy waved a limp hand. “You can afford it. You have to be supportive. She’s been working so hard, family support is important.”

“But I don’t support it!”

“What?”

“I mean, I support her opening a store, it’s great. Really. But not a kids’ boutique that charges an arm and a leg for a piece of cotton with arm holes cut out.”

“I see.” Mommy sat quietly at the table. After a while, she said, “Buy whatever you like, I’ll pay for it.”

“But Ma, I can afford it, it’s not about the money. It’s the principle.”

“And the principle of bein adam l’chaveiro comes before this. Use my money.”

“I can think of better ways to waste it,” I joked.

Mommy didn’t smile. “I’m serious. I understand why you don’t want to do this. Go early, shop when no one is there, buy something cheap that no one will recognize as a brand name, but I think your sister-in-law’s feelings matter more in this case.”

I stood up to clear the table. “Fine, I’ll think about it.”

I knew what I was looking for. Yesterday, Elisheva had showed me sweaters that, shockingly, were only $45, boring, solid, navy blue V-necks — take off 15% and they would be $38.25. Ridiculous.

The store was busy: good for Elisheva, bad for me, because I wanted to be there when it was quiet.

“You came!”

I turned around. Sari was there with a stash of clothes draped over her forearm. “Of course,” I said, and looked in the direction of the “cheap” sweater shelf.

“Is Elisheva the buyer?” Sari asked. “What great taste. Every piece is nicer than the next.” Right. Like navy uniform sweaters, I thought. I weaved my way through a huddle of women, and reached the shelf, Sari behind me. It was empty. The cheapest sweater was sold out. Now, I’d have to wade through stuff and surreptitiously flick over price tags to see what was cheapest.

“What’s usually the cheapest item in kids clothing stores?” I whispered to Sari.

She smirked. “Accessories.”

Accessories were sprinkled throughout the store. I picked up a belt — $64. Seriously? Why?? I looked at the composition — calf leather. Okay, it was great quality, but what kid needed a calf leather belt?

I saw a red and blue knit beanie cap for $46. Sheessh! But $46 was close enough to the $45 I was going to spend. And maybe my baby would wear it every day, making its cost-per-wear almost worth it.

Sari looked at the beanie, then at me, and shrugged.

“I’m gonna shop, talk to you later.” She raised her clothes-laden hand and disappeared behind two women holding up the $96 Italian Treasures stretchie I saw previously, pure joy in their eyes.

Mommy sat near the counter, Elisheva was behind the register. Mommy gestured for me to come close when she saw me.

“What?” I asked, leaning lower to hear. I felt her hand inside my skirt pocket, then she patted it on the outside. That just made things worse. Should I or shouldn’t I? Does it count as sticking to my principles if someone else pays for it? And if the other person doesn’t know that I’m not paying, they don’t know my principles? And do principles count if no one knows them but you, and you seem not to be following them but you know you are?

Elisheva noticed me. “Whaddya find?”

My cheeks burned. Was the beanie cap ridiculous and insulting to Elisheva? She’s not an idiot. She knows her pricing and she knows I can afford it.

I waved my hand. “Just browsing.” I doubled back for the calfskin belt.

I dropped it on the counter and Elisheva lifted it like it was a Ming vase.

“Good taste,” she commented. First came the wrapping, then the customized bag, and then time to pay. My fingers twitched near my pocket. Then I reached into my bag and pulled out my wallet, put down my Amex.

Elisheva accepted it casually, she didn’t know anything, I assured myself. Mommy raised an eyebrow and nodded curtly. I looked away.

“All set,” Elisheva said after the chip reader emitted its irritating remove-card buzz. I nodded and smiled, or tried to.

“Take care,” Elisheva called as I turned to leave. I stooped and gave Mommy a quick kiss.

The air outside helped my breathing, but not my thoughts. I looked around quickly. Down the street, sitting outside the pizza store, a beggar strummed a guitar and sang “Ivdu.” Without thinking, I approached the beggar, reached into my pocket for Mommy’s money, and then as quickly as I could, threw it into his open guitar case. I walked away before he could react.

I don't know if what I did or anything I did, for that matter, was right or wrong or just misguided self-righteousness. I headed toward my car. It was a partly cloudy, partly sunny day. I shivered as I walked, but my nose was warm.

(Originally featured in Family First 607)