Had this been any other Lizman simchah, Deena would’ve found an excuse not to go. She did not feel up to facing Zev’s mother, not after she’d turned down her request to talk about Zev and the job gemach idea on Instagram.

“It’s just so… personal,” she’d tried explaining to her. “My posts are my business… I don’t feel comfortable sharing details of my life with random followers.”

Zev’s mother had been shocked. And possibly — no, definitely — hurt. She’d said she understood, but it was obvious that she really didn’t. She didn’t realize what the world of social media was all about. It was the place where you were always cool and preppy and upbeat and never showed a single crack, unless that crack was carefully calculated vulnerability that made you look pretty. Getting personal wasn’t professional. It wasn’t… safe.

They’d hung up with some awkward, stilted words. The whole thing was just ugh.

She would’ve stayed home, feigned a terrible virus or something. But this was her sister-in-law Shaina making a bar mitzvah, the only Lizman family member who always had her back. She had no choice but to go.

Once she and the kids were dressed, she felt somewhat more excited.

“You guys look absolutely gorgeous,” she told her kids. She opened her arms wide and, laughing, they fell into her embrace.

“Okay, kids, remember, we’re going to have a great time, and everyone is going to behave beautifully. Right?”

Nechama nodded eagerly. Miri shrugged.

Deena adjusted a bobby pin in Miri’s hair. Then she took a few pictures of her kids, fixed her own sheitel in the mirror, and they were off.

Her stomach lurched as she stepped into the hall. This was the second Lizman bar mitzvah she was attending. Girls ruled at the Lizmans, and the last bar mitzvah had been six years earlier, a month after Deena’s wedding. To that bar mitzvah, Deena had worn—

“Do you know what your sisters are wearing to the bar mitzvah, Zev?”

“I have no idea. Ask them?”

Deena put a beautiful plate of skirt steak salad with zaatar dressing — a recipe she’d developed all on her own — in front of him. “No, I can’t ask them. I don’t feel comfortable.”

“Huh? What’s not comfortable about asking? I mean, I don’t really get it, does it matter what they’re wearing? Wear whatever you like.”

“I don’t want to be too simple or too fancy. I’m not looking to match color schemes or anything, I just want to dress appropriately.”

But Zev wouldn’t get it. He thought she was acting immature — Who cares about others, respect your own opinion, you always look great, what’s this shtick? By the way, what’s up with this dressing? Did you use a wrong spice by mistake?

She’d ended up wearing the dress she’d worn to her Shabbos sheva brachos — and sticking out like a sore thumb next to her understatedly elegant sisters-in-law.

Tonight she wore her black Max Mara dress with a classy belt. Understated elegance, definitely, although oddly, she hardly cared. Where was Zev to appreciate her independent decision making?

Zev’s mother greeted Deena cordially enough. “You look amazing! Hey, kids, come to Bubby, let me see how beautiful you look!”

After settling the girls at the kids’ table with their cousins, Zev’s mother directed Deena to the sinks to wash. Then they sat down at the table with Zev’s sisters.

Everything was going more or less okay — music tinkling in the background, the smell of pickles and coleslaw rising over Zev’s sisters’ chatter — until Zev’s aunt Penina came over to their table. She wore a black chiffon scarf draped over her shoulder and held together with a diamond brooch. “Deeeeena! So nice to see you? How are you?”

Deena shook crumbs off her lap and stood up. “I’m good, how are you, Penina? You look great!”

Penina’s newly married daughter Nechama was standing next to her. “Hey, Deena, mazel tov. Where’s Nechama Nine? And Miri?”

“Goodness, you’re still keeping track of all the Nechamas in the family?”

“Of course,” Zev’s mother said. “She’s Nechama One. She was born a day after Bubby’s shloshim.”

Nechama grinned. “Nu, let me see your kids. I didn’t see them in ages.”

Deena pointed to the kids’ table. “Tell me how cute they are. Miri, Nechama!”

Her kids turned their heads and Deena motioned them over.

“Ooooooh,” Nechama One squealed. “They are beyond adorable, you know that, right?” She stared them up and down. “Your hair is stunning,” she told Miri. “And, hey, Deena, I recognize their shoooooes…”

No, no, no, no. You do not recognize their shoes. Please un-recognize their shoes quickly and keep your mouth zipped.

But Nechama wasn’t done. “It’s adorable how I get to keep up with your kids’ lives through Instagram. Talk about popularity. Are they, like, all proud of themselves?”

Deena watched Zev’s mother’s eyes travel down to her kids’ shoes. She watched her eyes travel back up, to Deena, searching her face.

The waiter walked over to their table bearing a tray of appetizers. Deena sat back down next to her mother-in-law, and they ate in silence.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 751)