So quiet, the hot plate’s low buzz was like a roar, punctuating the stillness of the deserted city.

They were probably the only family on the block who’d stayed home for Shabbos. The only family in the city. In the world.

Her eyes were moist as she finished her tefillos over the licht. She pinned her gaze on the leichter — the beautiful gift, bought with Yochi’s tip money, now looking hopelessly forlorn. She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and turned to her two little kids.

“Gut Shabbos, kinderlach.”

She stooped down and embraced each of them, planted kisses on their cheeks. Forcing her lips into a smile, she got one of the new puzzles and invited Malkie to sit on the floor with her.

They sat for ten minutes, but then Motti broke up all the pieces they’d matched up and Malkie lost interest and went to play with her dolls.

The scattered puzzle pieces seemed to smirk at Pessie. So much for your efforts.

Motti started whining. Pessie scooped him up and took him to his crib. He fell asleep before she even left his room.

It was only eight. She’d made an early Shabbos, simply because there was nothing else to do. Now she set the dinette table for the seudah. No china, only a challah board, a kos, some napkins, plastic cups, and cutlery.

She davened Kabbalas Shabbos, then called Malkie to the table.

Well, Kiddush.

This wasn’t awkward, so not.

She filled the kos with light grape juice, opened a zemiros to the right place. Without looking up, she mumbled the words, ignoring Malkie’s giggles. A sip, a little more for the shiur, some for Malkie, done.

“I don’t want fish,” Malkie said after they washed and made Hamotzi.

No fish then. She wasn’t going to serve fish just for herself.

The seudah was over in 15 minutes.

A grand 15-minute pity party.

“Bedtime,” Pessie told Malkie crisply. Malkie went to sleep without protest, almost like she was doing this on purpose, to give Pessie the time and space to mope.

Pessie cleared the table, swept the floor. She put the leftover food in the fridge, and then — nothing. It was 8:30. The kitchen was clean, the house was quiet. On a regular Shabbos, Yochi would just about be heading to shul for Minchah and Kabbalas Shabbos.

And on a not-regular Shabbos — on Shabbos Nachamu — Yochi is in Greece, and my parents and all my siblings are sitting together in a hotel upstate, laughing at old jokes and feeding their kids kugel and chicken from the industrial size pans in the rented warmer.

“I can’t believe Pessie isn’t here,” her mother was surely telling everyone. “I don’t know what got into her!”

Her mother had been outraged — no, scandalized — when Pessie had told her she was staying behind. She’d argued and begged and even yelled at her about the decision.

“I don’t get you. You’re punishing yourself. And really, Pessie, I’m taking this personally. I’m very upset.”

Pessie had apologized, but her mind was made up. “I can’t come without Yochi,” she’d told her mother firmly.

What now?

She could have an early night, but not this early. There was no way she was falling asleep at 8:30.

Read?

The magazines weren’t pulling her, but she picked one up anyway. She flipped through the pages, stopped at a random feature. Single, but Never Alone.

Her eyes scuttled over the words. It was a collection of stories from single moms who rose above their challenges and didn’t allow their broken marriages to stand in the way of their happiness.

She stopped at a pull quote. “That’s when I realized: I didn’t have a husband, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t have a life.”

Pessie hurled the magazine onto the table and stood up. She went over to the window, lifted the shade and leaned on the windowsill.

There wasn’t a soul in sight.

Not a single, she thought morbidly, but always alone.

Greece was on a different planet than Zambia.

There was nothing wild or adventurous on this tour, only the most arresting beauty Yochi had ever seen in his life. It was 97 degrees, but the heat was tempered by the breeze from the startling blue sea. He leaned over the railing by the shore and stared into the magnificent waters below, lapping over towering rocks.

His muscles relaxed. He’d been up since six, getting all guests breakfasted and onto the chartered buses. They had to leave early every morning, because Kalavryta was quite a distance from most attractions. After much deliberation, he and Binick had chosen this mountainous region over Athens. The distance was a downside, but the resort was incredible, the mountains were exotic, and mainly, it was a more kosher venue, away from the city’s beaches.

The babble of voices made him turn. It was Binick’s gang, chasing Frisbees through the air. One round disc spun through the air, whizzing over Yochi’s head and alighting with a splash on the surface of the sea.

Binick’s daughter shrieked. The entire family ran over to the railing to watch the orange plastic disc float and bob over the water. Everyone laughed, except the little girl who’d lost her toy. She burst into tears.

Yochi watched as Binick’s wife lifted the girl up and patted her back, consoling her. She spoke to her softly, and a few minutes later, the girl was waving goodbye to her Frisbee, a shy grin on her face. Then Binick passed around a box of brownie bars, and all was good.

All — except for a little lump in Yochi’s throat.

Why not, Pessie? Why not?

His pity fest was interrupted by his ringing phone. It was the manager at Cave of Lakes — the next stop on their itinerary.

“Did you notice they’re predicting rain soon? You may want to come an hour earlier if you don’t want your group to get caught in the rain.”

No, he did not want his group to get caught in the rain, and he very badly didn’t want to miss this amazing tour.

Within seconds, Yochi sprang into action. He dispatched his staff, fired off a text to the tour group chat.

Change of plans. We’re heading over to Cave of Lakes for our tour in ten minutes. Please head over to the buses immediately. We’ll meet you there with lunch.

Fifteen minutes later, the buses were rolling. Binick helped his wife settle down the kids, then he joined Yochi in the front seat.

“You know something, Yochonon?” he said, popping open his blister bowl and scooping out an avocado wrap. “This is a moment of victory for me. I had faith in you when I hired you, but seeing you in action now — taking control, staying cool, problem solving — I have to tell you, I’m proud of my intuition. You’re a born leader. I couldn’t have found anyone more suitable for this job.”

Yochi gave a robotic nod and mumbled a dry thank-you. He knew he should make some wisecrack, shake off the praise with his trademark humor.

But he couldn’t come up with that classic Yochi joke. He was too dispirited to be funny.

Instead, his eyes traveled to the Binick children on the other side of the aisle, sweaty hair pasted to their foreheads, scraping at frozen juice boxes.

Who would have imagined how sour success could taste?

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 766)