Comfortable

The scene was a familiar one when I was growing up: a tired woman painstakingly scratching numbers with a sharp pencil, adding and subtracting and dividing. If the answer was positive, her face relaxed. When she couldn’t juggle the numbers, the lines on her forehead deepened into a ridge of worry.

She was often worried.

I didn’t want to be like my mother, who undertook responsibility for the finances to support her husband in kollel. My father was one of those legendary people who never touched cash, carried no checkbook, and didn’t even know how to find the bank. My mother shouldered the burden, but I watched the lines permanently etch her face, and I knew my husband would deal with that in my home.

A short year in shidduchim was quickly followed by my engagement to the solid kovei’a itim ben Torah I’d dreamed of.

“You’ll take care of the bills, right?” I said to Heshy.

He looked at me, surprised. “Of course,” he answered.

I was a popular 12th-grade mechaneches and program director at one of the local high schools. At the end of every month, I handed my check to Heshy, and the rest was a mystery. I didn’t go to the bank. I never looked at our account to see how much we had. I ignored the bills that showered our mailbox in a stream of fiscal confetti. I earned, I spent, I cooked, I cleaned, I shopped, I raised the children, but I didn’t do money. At all.

Heshy insisted on investing a certain sum of money and taking care of our pensions. I sat stiffly through the long, boring meeting as Heshy and the financial guru lobbed unintelligible terms over my head. Nodding like a puppet, I agreed to whatever jargon was thrown my way. As long as Heshy paid the bills and we were in the black, I was fine. We had a life insurance policy, although Heshy was always talking about switching to one that was worth more.

And every so often — usually when I asked a question that betrayed my complete ignorance of all things financial — he’d look at me and say, “Faigy, I really think we should go over all of this sometime.”

I didn’t know that according to a recent UBS Global Wealth Management study, 56 percent of wives leave all the financial decisions in the home to their husbands — and that I was in good (and ignorant) company.

I was comfortable with the way things were.

“Sometime” never seemed to come.

Continue

It was nighttime, and I was in the hospital. They didn’t let me stay, but Heshy’s encouraging smile followed me out of the room. It was the last time I saw him smile. He slipped into a coma that night. My sister from Monsey and my brother from Philadelphia both came to support me during the long hours in the ICU.

It was a blur of whispered Tehillim, sharing stories, the beep and hiss of machines, numbers flashing up and down — and then mostly down. My sister held my hand, and my brother gently steered me from the room into the quiet lobby.

“I can’t even focus on what’s going to happen,” I told them panicked. “What am I going to do? What am I going to live on? I don’t even know if I have enough money!” Heshy was hooked up to a ventilator, his body barely functioning, and I was already frantic about my future.

“Does he have a pension? Investments? Savings?” asked my brother gently.

I shrugged my shoulders numbly. “Heshy wanted me to learn, but I don’t know anything,” I told him.

Torturous weeks of waiting ended in the dark hours before dawn as I finally dozed on the hard plastic chair near the bed. Heshy was niftar.

Careful

I thought I would remember every pain-filled detail of the shivah, but all I can recall is exhaustion, tears, and talking, talking, talking, until my voice failed and I could relate the same stories on autopilot — sometimes in my dreams.

The days after my children left the house, when shivah was over, are the most vivid. The day I woke up and there was no milk in the fridge. I regretted I’d thrown away the shivah leftovers, but I couldn’t bear the perfectly crisp schnitzel and neat cubes of melon. I needed food that didn’t taste of grief.

The store was soothing. Familiar aisles of bright packages and the heady scent of fresh fruits and vegetables in the produce section. I breathed and pushed the cart to the dairy aisle. This was my safe space, where I could walk with confidence, putting the things I needed into my cart.

Or could I? My hand froze on a bottle of milk.

I knew my finances were a mess. Heshy hadn’t worked for months before his petirah, I’d been taking off from school every week, and bills don’t stop coming just because you’re dealing with a family crisis. After such a long period of neglect, I was aware that I was probably on perilous financial footing. Was I able to afford food?

I wasn’t mourning my husband. I was too busy worrying about the future.

I had three children to marry off. Three married children to support. Death doesn’t stop the world from continuing. And I didn’t know how to continue.

It became the era of threes.

I had to think three times before I placed any food item into my cart.

It took three tries before I could figure out how to navigate the ATM on my own. A humiliating first session of utter despair at which buttons to press was followed by two coaching sessions with my son guiding me through the mysterious ATM over the phone.

When I finally found the life insurance documents in a drawer next to Heshy’s socks, I read the number three times before a feeling of dread took over. Dimly, I recalled all the times Heshy insisted we should find a new policy (“It’s much too low, someday we have to look into it, maybe during summer vacation”), but it never happened. The amount that seemed like a fortune to my newly married self paled in comparison to my present-day expenses. Seminary and yeshivah tuition swallowed up thousands, supporting my marrieds ate away many more thousands, there was the monthly mortgage (how much was it?), the ridiculously high prices of groceries, and future shidduchim and weddings to budget for. How was I going to afford to live?

Would I have money to buy a new sheitel when my old one turned into an oxidized mess faster than I dreamed possible? (Probably not.) Could I send my grandchildren birthday money? (Generic cards would have to do at the moment).

I soon realized that supporting my children was impossible.

My oldest daughter called on behalf of my three married children.

“Ma, you don’t need to worry about support,” Suri said awkwardly. “We’ll all manage.”

I thought I was effectively concealing my worries but my kids knew, and were determined not to become a burden. The nurturer had become an object of pity.

I thought I was all cried out after the shivah and shloshim, but I discovered that night that tears, like hope, spring eternal.

According to the U.S. Bank Women and Wealth Insights Study, only 19 percent of women consider themselves financially savvy — and I was firmly in the remaining 81 percent. Only much later did I hear from Eli Fried, a financial advisor from Lakewood, NJ who’s worked with many widows, that it’s extremely common for new widows to feel lost when the household finances become their responsibility.

I was lost, and I didn’t know where to turn.

Categorize

Two days later, my married CPA-daughter Adina came over to help me organize my bills.

I had no idea what Heshy paid, when he paid it, or how. I knew the code to his phone, and despite the safety risks, our password was almost the same for everything (FayandHesh80!), so I could access our accounts, but the numbers were so much gibberish. Luckily, the Mount Everest of bills on the front hall table was a treasure trove of knowledge. We combed through the house, gathering up scraps of paper from the filing closet in the corner of our room, the file folders of documents Heshy stuffed in our drawer, and random bills tucked into kitchen cabinets.

Water bills. Electricity. Gas. Phone. Target credit card. Regular credit card. AAA membership. Homeowner’s insurance. Car insurance. Mortgage payments. The list went on and on. Adina helped me put the bills into neatly labeled manila envelopes, and set up automatic payments for almost everything, but I still had little idea of how much was coming out of my account each month.

Adina also offered to help me get in touch with Social Security and make an appointment for a phone call — which was the prelude to an actual appointment at the Social Security office. Maybe it was my naivete, but I hadn’t realized that after Heshy paid Social Security for decades, I’d have to choose between using his benefits or mine. Survivor benefits didn’t allow me to claim the thousands he’d invested in the program without forfeiting my own benefits, and since I was still working, I swallowed the loss of future money we’d counted on. I was told that I’d receive a bereavement gift for my recent loss — 200 dollars that I’d have to come collect at a later date.

And then Avi called from yeshivah to tell me he’d left his credit card at home after the last off-Shabbos, but he needed it as soon as possible.

“I haven’t seen it around, but I’ll order you a new one,” I said. “It shouldn’t be a big deal.”

The man on the other end of the line didn’t agree.

“Can I speak to Hershel Wasser?” he asked.

“Well, no. He’s my husband, but he passed away not long—”

“Then I’m afraid we’ll have to terminate your account,” he informed me.

“But I’m his wife, you have my name on the account!” I said shrilly.

“He’s the primary account holder, and I have to speak to him. If I can’t, this account is closed.”

“But I have no other credit card!” I cried. “I need this credit card. I have no way of paying my bills! I’m a new widow! I’ve lost so much, don’t do this!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s company policy,” he replied evenly.

“Is this conversation being recorded?” I raged. Then, “I hope you go through this one day!” I was blind with anger, and only dimly noticed that my voice was becoming hoarse as I screamed at the credit card representative.

He hung up on me.

“Hashem, don’t do this to me!” I cried.

And cried and cried.

Climb

It was the lowest moment I’d experienced since Heshy’s petirah. But I had to keep going forward, one step at a time, because the realization was sinking in: There was no one else to do this.

Hashem helped me swallow my pride, and I let my son take me to the bank to open up a new credit card. I had no line of credit, so the $4,000 limit was shockingly low. But it was a beginning.

And I called a friend who was an accountant.

“Malka, I need your help,” I said. “I don’t know what I’m doing with my finances, and Adina helped me enough. I don’t need my own daughter knowing every detail about my income.”

Malka and I opened the bulging manila envelopes and spread the bills out in a white sea that lapped at the edges of the table.

“Pick up a paper and pencil and write every single thing down,” Malka instructed. “I want you to have clarity on all your income and expenditures. You can’t move forward until you know the facts on the ground.” Pay stubs, credit card bills, mortgage papers, bills — I dutifully recorded them all, images of my mother stark in my mind.

The facts on the ground almost swept me back into that bleak emptiness of despair. No matter how I begged my calculator, or desperately revisited the numbers, they weren’t adding up. I couldn’t afford the groceries and my mortgage, let alone an occasional iced coffee with my daughter who always needed some extra attention. And what about seminary tuition and the fees for the boys’ yeshivah? My salary simply didn’t cover all my expenses.

In losing Heshy, I’d also lost my former life.

“Faigy, first transfer everything to your name — your bills, your accounts, your mortgage. And find a financial advisor,” advised Malka. “A good one. From your bank statements, it looks like your life insurance is sitting in a no-interest savings account. I’m just an accountant, not a financial advisor, but I can also see that you have high tuition expenses. Talk to the mosdos, seek help.”

I didn’t want help. I didn’t want to speak to anyone about being a pathetic widow.

“When you’re in a better place financially, you can help yourself,” Malka said.

I resolved to try.

I began reading through the credit card bills and the bank statements. The intensity that usually went into preparing inspiring lessons or whipping up a gourmet Yom Tov menu now focused on money. I was surprised to find relief in understanding the difference between a large electric bill and an average one. I realized there were extra charges on my cell phone bill, and, hoping they couldn’t hear the nervousness in my voice, negotiated with the company.

I forced myself to go down to the bank on my own to put the mortgage in my name. The teller was brisk and efficient, and before I had a chance to panic, I was holding the precious documents. Every bill, every paper, went into another labeled envelope, as I uncovered the mysteries of escrow, refinancing, and how fast property taxes rise.

I first tried working with an inexperienced financial advisor with grandiose ideas but very little to show for them. He charged me a tremendous amount, but he was a neighbor, so I trusted him. A call from the bank, telling me that some of my investments were sitting in an interest-free savings account and earning nothing was a blow that eventually led me to an experienced, warm professional. He explained everything he was doing with my money, the details of each investment, and showed me how I could maximize the money I had. My lamentably small life insurance was soon invested in a five percent yield investment account, and I started to breathe more easily.

Regaining control of my life was a process that I couldn’t have done without help. Eli Fried, like my friend Malka, strongly recommends that widows should have a financial advisor to help them navigate unfamiliar fiscal territory, and if only I’d known, I’d have done it sooner.

With solid guidance, I finally called the seminary and yeshivah, who were very understanding about my situation. I hated to flash the “widow card,” but it was the hand I’d been dealt, and I was learning how to play it.

Collect

My daughter Shaindy’s engagement right after seminary was unexpected — she’d gone out with a boy my sister recommended, and I said yes to stop her from pestering me — but the deep joy mingled with sadness, and an alarming increase in my bills.

I’d forgotten how expensive it was to marry off a daughter.

I smiled and took Shaindy shopping, praying that the credit card wouldn’t be declined at the linen store while we fingered our latest purchase. But at night, eyes red with fatigue, I let the tears come as I scratched numbers in notebooks that didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t add up.

One of the typical organizations that helps orphans with weddings wanted pages and pages of detailed financial information, some of which I still didn’t understand, before they would help us. I was trying, but I wasn’t financially clear yet, and I refused to ask anyone to help me get tzedakah.

“My husband died a few months ago and I don’t have the finances straightened out yet. Can we take care of all the details later?”

No, they informed me, politely but firmly. If I didn’t want to follow their protocol, I could take my needy self elsewhere. I didn’t know where else to turn. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, but thankfully Shaindy was in her post-engagement haze and didn’t notice.

When my principal called me into her office, asked me if I was all right, and handed me a tissue, I burst into messy sobs all over her desk. As mortified as I was, I couldn’t stop the flood. I’d been feeling like things were slowly coming under control, but the expenses of a chasunah were derailing my small victories.

“You’ve given so much to our students. It’s time for us to give back,” she said quietly when I was up to the sniffling-into-tissues stage of my outburst. I appreciated the money she discreetly collected, but I appreciated it even more when she connected me to an organization called Keren Almones V’Yesomim. “Call them. Here’s the number,” she said.

After months of struggling to feel like a functioning human being again, this organization restored my dignity.

When I called, a kind, Yiddish-accented voice explained the details of the program.

“We create an account for you at the grocery store of your choice,” he explained. “This is for you to buy raw chicken, fish, and meat for Shabbos and Yom Tov. Nobody knows you aren’t a regular customer at the store — even the cashier. You buy what you need, it’s on your account, and we pay your bill. Buy enough for your children, enough for yourself, enough to have leftovers for Sunday.”

It was unbelievable. I didn’t check my credit balance as obsessively before entering the store. I didn’t inwardly debate whether a supper of macaroni and cheese would be enough to feed my hungry teenage boys when they came home from yeshivah.

I just… bought the meat and fish and chicken. And I didn’t have to think.

And nobody knew. My children didn’t know — still don’t know — that the meat and chicken and fish that grace my Shabbos is paid for through the kindness of others.

Hashem sent help in other unexpected ways. An anonymous person paid for our gowns, a repayment of a long-overdue loan Heshy had made to one of his business associates completed the deposit on the hall, and a former student’s parents gave me a timely gift that went straight to the furniture store. The chasunah wasn’t going to be lavish, but Shaindy would have what she needed, and I worked to overcome the embarrassment of taking so much from so many people.

For the first time since Heshy’s petirah, I thought I might someday feel almost whole.

Spiral

Leaving and returning. Beginning and ending. It’s the journey that is familiar and different, bringing us back to the same days of the week, the same months of the year, but changed and different and new.

I still struggle to balance my income and expenditures, but I also have my investments and some savings. I’ve asked for a long-overdue raise at work, and I’ve learned to ask for help to cover the gaps. I know, down to the penny, how much I pay for every bill, the date of each automatic withdrawal, and the code for every account is written down and placed in a manila envelope.

“Get a filing cabinet, Ma,” Shaindy urged. I refused.

Widowhood means loss and pain. But as well as the loss of a spouse, there’s the loss of self, of financial independence and dignity. It took almost two years for me to find my footing.

As I sit in front of my financial advisor for our yearly review of my finances, I know I’m in a totally different place. Heshy was always proud of my accomplishments, and I know he would reap so much nachas from my envelopes.

I open the first one, spreading the papers on the desk.

At last, I’m ready.

In Case of Emergency

Eli Fried of Lakewood, New Jersey is the founder of Leatherback Investments and GeltGuide.com. An early volunteer for Legally Links, a branch of Links devoted to helping widowers, widows, and orphans with their finances and legal matters, Eli offers some thoughts on minimizing financial complications due to a husband’s passing away.

The process begins before there’s a tragedy. “It’s uncomfortable to talk about ‘after 120,’ ” he says, “but you can prevent many complications with a little planning.” In the common scenario where husbands manage the household’s more complex financial matters, it’s his job to maintain an “In Case of Emergency” file.

“Have a clear system to document all your bills and investments. List the professionals you count on. Have a digital or paper document that includes codes, costs, and everything your wife will need if you’re not there to explain everything to her,” he says. Along with securing sufficient life insurance, being proactive is a basic achrayus and chesed for your loved ones.

If tragedy strikes, chas v’shalom, Mr. Fried proposes a few ideas for new widows to consider:

Don’t panic or rush. New almanos are in a vulnerable state, and they need time to absorb the loss. Very few money matters are emergencies, and hurried decisions are often flawed.

If a husband didn’t provide a clear financial document, call someone he trusted. The first person would be a financial advisor or accountant who does the family tax filings. A trusted business partner or relative could also help widows locate important information and begin taking stock of how to move forward.

Searching through a husband’s email account will usually yield a tremendous amount of information about bills, insurance, and trusted people. Find keywords like “utilities” and “mortgage.”

Well-meaning does not automatically equal trustworthy. Especially if there’s a significant life insurance payout, there will be investment pitches that may or may not be in the almanah’s best interest. Friends or relatives who sincerely want to give altruistic advice might also be clueless. It’s essential to seek advice carefully and get unbiased second opinions on significant decisions.

New widows don’t know what they don’t know. For example, they may be eligible for thousands in Social Security benefits for unmarried children. To use every resource effectively, they need financial and legal assistance from a skilled professional. I strongly recommend turning to dedicated askanim and organizations like Legally Links that have experience in these matters.

Ten Steps to Financial Literacy

Literacy begins with children recognizing ABCs and learning their sounds. Financial literacy starts with basic steps that young adults should internalize before the responsibilities of marriage and raising a family.

“Knowledge is power,” says Alexandra Schonfeld Weaderhorn, a divorce, family, and matrimonial law attorney from Schonfeld & Goldring in Cedarhurst, New York — and in the world of financial literacy, one might say that knowledge is everything.

April is Financial Literacy Month (it’s nice how this coincides with the most expensive Yom Tov of the year), and NASFAA (National Association of Student Financial Aid Administrators) has a list of ten steps leading young adults to financial literacy. But it’s not only for young adults — for any adult who hasn’t begun this crucial journey, the time is always now.

Calculate your spending: Start by calculating your monthly income and expenses. Use a spreadsheet to list every bill, every paycheck, and categorize your spending. How much do you spend on groceries per month? On gas? On last-minute splurges?

Create a budget: Work out a realistic budget that makes sense for your situation. Keep track of every dollar you spend in each category, and tweak as necessary. If Pesach is coming (for instance), your regular food budget is not going to cut it.

Smart debt: If possible, avoid taking on debt. If you must take on debt, be aware of interest rates, and make sure payments fit into your budget.

Save for emergencies: Set aside some money each month in case of emergencies. It doesn’t have to be a lot. Even a little can go a long way.

Save for the future: Start putting away money for those big down-the-line expenses as early as possible to give your money time to grow. Ask a financial advisor to help you save wisely.

Live within your means: Try to live within your means by avoiding unnecessary expenses and making smart purchasing decisions. Yes, the mortgage and tuition need to be paid, but consciously deciding not to constantly keep up with the Schoens can only help when money is tight.

Plan for big expenses: Whether it’s a down payment on a house, a new car, or shemurah matzah, plan ahead for big expenses by saving up and making informed decisions about financing options.

Be mindful of credit: Not meeting monthly balances and excess credit card debt can lead to more financial problems than if you avoided using credit altogether. Many people need credit cards, but some learn to do without them. Either way, treat credit with caution.

Educate yourself: Go to a financial advisor. Sit down with an excellent accountant. Learn about money. Bone up on every aspect of your finances. Find out what you don’t know before you make mistakes.

Ask for help: If you’re up against a tough financial situation, ask for help before the problem gets bigger. You missed a mortgage payment? Your bank account overdrawn? Not sure how to navigate life insurance? Ask. Don’t be embarrassed, even if you’re not a newlywed anymore.

And for every couple, there’s the crucial purchase of a good life insurance policy. Your health status and age are major factors in how much you’ll pay for your policy, so the sooner you settle on one, the better.

“Get a referral or two for a life insurance broker,” says financial advisor Sara Glaz Aloni. “Sit down with them and do an analysis of your current life situation to find out how much insurance you need (and qualify for), what type of insurance you should get (term or permanent), and the process involved.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 937)