Pessie filled her lungs slowly. “I don’t want him to leave,” she repeated, then continued, tripping over her words. “But he’s leaving, he’s very excited about this tour job, and I get him, and I have to support him even if I’m not happy about it. I know you’re upset, and Tatty also, and I get you, I get everyone, and I wish someone would try to get me.”

The speaker erupted in drumbeats. Pessie shut it off.

“I see,” her mother said. “I… It’s good that you’re telling me this.”

The room was quiet. Pessie regretted turning off the music. “It’s hard for me,” Pessie started. “This… I didn’t choose it, it’s not easy to—”

She stopped short as her sister Libby walked into the living room, holding Motti.

“Libby!” her mother said. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t ask. We were supposed to have a methods workshop, but there was a whole schedule mix-up, so it was canceled, and Mrs. Gluckstein must have been in a great mood, because she dismissed us early.”

“Good for you.” She extended her arms toward Motti. “Come to Bubby, mister!”

Babies and kid sisters, bless them.

“By the way, Pessie,” Libby said, “I met your Hindy this morning, and she looks awful. I never saw her skin looking so bad. Can’t you do something about it?”

“Right,” her mother said. “Did you try the avocado oil I gave you?”

“I did. I think it helped a bit.”

It hadn’t, not even a bit. If anything, it had made Hindy’s skin worse.

But if this was what it took to change the conversation, Pessie was glad to play along.

How long would it take to stop feeling awkward showing up at your in-laws’ house alone? Two years, and Deena still dreaded it every time.

There was a strongly enforced take-off-your-shoes-as-soon-as-you-come-in rule at the Lizman household, and Deena still hadn’t figured out if that included her or only the people who actually lived there. She stood at the door hesitantly until Nechama ran over and jumped into her arms.

“Hello, Nechama!” Deena pressed her daughter’s head into her shoulder and stroked her silky hair. “I missed you so much,” she whispered.

Miri was curled up on the couch, staring into space and scowling. Deena immediately interpreted the signal: Bad mood. Keep off.

Her stomach tightened. Why? What did Zev’s mother do that made this girl so miserable?

“Here,” Miri growled, tossing her carry-on in Deena’s direction.

There was a big X drawn on the sequins, Deena noticed. That meant…?

She reached out to hug her daughter. Miri shrugged out of her embrace. Grr.

“Okay, kids, let’s go say goodbye to Bubby.”

Zev’s mother came up from the basement. “Hi, Deena! How are you?

Can I make you a coffee?”

Nicey-nicey. Yeah, right.

“That’s okay, thanks. I had one before.”

Mrs. Lizman asked the girls to go the playroom for a few minutes, and they surprisingly complied. As soon as they’d left, Zev’s mother cleared her throat. “I wanted to talk to you about Miri.”

And I wanted to talk to you about Miri. To describe how you dared fuel her to protest The Top Rack story.

“I spoke to her teacher. Morah Shiffy.”

Deena gaped. “What?”

“I was worried about her and looks like I was onto something. Her teacher realized it, too.”

Deena clenched her fists. “There is nothing wrong with Miri,” she all but hissed.

“You didn’t notice that she’s acting strange lately? Like very subdued? Maybe even anxious.”

“There is nothing wrong with her,” Deena repeated. “She’s perfectly fine at home, and she’s a bit shy in school, which is totally normal. She does not need therapy.”

“Not major therapy, just a little intervention. Morah Shiffy suggested it, and I agree.”

Who was she to agree or disagree? She was the one causing half of Miri’s “issues.”

Anger simmered in her chest. This was crazy. What was Zev’s mother thinking, calling Miri’s teacher? What right did she have? As if Zev’s death had turned her into his mouthpiece!

Deena’s throat burned. “I’m in touch with Morah Shiffy.”

“Okay, that’s good.” She gave a little chuckle. “I know it isn’t easy to do this on your own. I’m happy to help, you know.”

I know. You’re only too happy, that’s the whole problem. I’ll do “this” on my own, thank you.

Deena was still seething when she arrived home. She gave her girls the cinnamon buns she’d baked in the morning and made herself a 16-ounce cup of coffee.

Nicey nicey nicey.

She was taking a bite of a bun when her phone rang.

“Deena?”

The voice was familiar, but it took her a moment to place it. “Ruthie? How are you?”

A sigh. “I guess you heard my news…?”

Deena hadn’t taken the time to think about Ruthie’s get. She’d just heard about it, and moved on. Now her heart flooded with sympathy. She paused, considering. “So… a new beginning, right? I hope Hashem gives you much simchah and hatzlachah. How are you managing?”

“You know, I get the craziest comments from people, everyone’s offering their help, advice, opinions.” Ruthie paused. “But I feel like you must get it, right?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure I do. But I’d love to help, if there’s anything I could do…”

“I just feel like… I don’t want to talk to anybody, but I need to talk. You know what I mean?”

“That totally makes sense.”

As the words left her mouth, something flickered in Deena’s mind. What exactly was she saying? What did she mean because you understand?

Ruthie continued talking. “That’s why I thought we should talk. For both of us. You know, we’re both single parents now. I mean, it’s not exactly the same. You don’t have this whole visitation headache.”

Right, being widowed is such a privilege. I totally lucked out. No visitation headache. Apart from the fact that I just picked up my kids from Zev’s parents, and Miri still looks like a thundercloud.

The flicker in her head turned into a spark. She could be nice. She could say all the right things. But empathy… no. Just no.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 743)