Ayala knew she was distracted as she served her kids dinner, but she didn’t realize to what extent until Tziri said hesitantly, “Ima, do you, uh, mean to be putting chocolate syrup on Rafi’s pasta?”

She glanced down in surprise, and then burst out laughing. “I thought I was holding ketchup. At least someone’s on the ball around here.”

She gazed fondly at her daughter. Tziri, her good, good, responsible, reliable girl. Tziri, who never made a fuss about anything. Who would imagine that she’d initiated Ayala into parenthood with such a bang, with her diagnosis of a congenital heart defect, her hospitalizations and surgeries and, since then, the annual checkups where Ayala held her breath, hoping and davening that everything was fine, healthy, normal?

She tugged Tziri’s pony as she walked to the fridge to exchange condiment bottles. Ayala used to tell Tziri that she was the one who’d started Chesed Tzirel, until she’d realized that this made her daughter uncomfortable. The twins had been in second or third grade, and they’d had a friend over one afternoon to play. Ayala had been busy coordinating a meeting between a family and a medical referral organization, and had only barely registered the little friend’s shy request for a drink — and her Layale’s immediately shushing her with, “My Ima’s on an important phone call. I’ll get you the drink myself.”

Afterward, Ayala had overheard Layale explaining, “My Ima runs a whole entire organization to help people. It’s called Chesed Tzirel.”

Their friend had immediately turned to Tziri. “Tzirel? Is it named for you?”

Ayala had been surprised to see her Tziri’s face instantly turn bright red. “No,” Ayala had said quickly. “It’s named for my savta, whose name was Tzirel. And Tziri’s also named for that savta.”

Growing up, Ayala had blushed about her elderly mother, but ironically, she’d viewed her Bubby Tzirel as cool and with-it. Bubby Tzirel was American-born (when many of her friends’ grandparents were European), and she could sit and schmooze with her granddaughter about friends, clothes, and unfair teachers. Bubby Tzirel had passed away before Ayala was married, but she still cherished the feeling of being the utter apple of her Bubby’s eye. It had felt wonderful to do something so special in her grandmother’s zechus.

Later that night, Tziri had told Ayala, “I never knew Chesed Tzirel was named for Bubby Tzirel. I thought it was because of me.”

Ayala had peered at her closely. “Did you want it to be named for you?”

“No!” Tziri had taken a step back, eyes wide. “No! I don’t want it to be about me at all!”

Now, those words echoed in her head. Was Ayala making this too much about herself? Was Bracha right? Was she letting her ego get in the way of doing what’s best for their constituents — ultimately, the people who really mattered?

And yet….

“I need advice,” Ayala told Naftali as soon as he walked through the door.

He stopped in his place and grinned. “With pleasure. Can I hang my hat and jacket up first?”

She laughed. “It’s not that urgent. We can talk over dinner.”

But five minutes into dinner she received an emergency call from Leora Schwartz, who needed to make an urgent medical decision about her husband’s treatment. And then a new woman called who was in the emergency room over her son’s allergic reaction to a medication, and even though it seemed to Ayala that the situation was being handled perfectly fine, the mother was panicking and wouldn’t calm down until Ayala had spoken to the doctor and repeated to the woman what the doctor had just relayed 20 minutes earlier.

By the time she’d finished with her phone calls, Naftali had eaten his dinner and was clearing his dishes. She opened her mouth to apologize but he waved her off.

“What would you prefer — my wise counsel or help with bedtime?” He nodded toward the kids still running around the living room.

“Oooh, totally unfair decision!” But Ayala sat down across from him. “I choose your wise counsel, sir.”

Her husband brightened. “I’m flattered.” The way he said it, she could tell he really was, which made her pause. Did she not demonstrate enough how much she valued his advice? Was this the same ego problem that Bracha had pointed out?

Ayala shook her head. Funny, she’d never thought of herself as the controlling type.

“Do you think I always need to have things my own way?” she blurted out.

Naftali looked surprised. “No more than most people. That’s what you wanted to ask me?”

“Nooo. But recently I’ve been getting the sense that other people are seeing me that way.”

Her husband frowned. “Who?”

“Dini, for one. She and her mother keep trying to push Chesed Tzirel in new directions, and she thinks I’m totally crazy for resisting.” Ayala rubbed her finger along the table. “Dini thinks I’m doing it as part of some power trip, to show that I’m the one in control.”

Naftali raised an eyebrow. “She said that?”

“No. But it’s clear it’s what she thinks. And Bracha as good as said it today.” Ayala felt a lump rising in her throat and swallowed hard. “She said I’m letting my ego get in the way of a great opportunity, just because I resent the fact that Mrs. Reiner, without asking us, went ahead and scheduled an appointment with this NPO consultant for the rich and famous.”

Naftali narrowed his eyes. “She’s wrong.”

Ayala felt an immense relief wash over her. “Really?”

“Of course! Chesed Tzirel is not and never has been about your ego, and anyone who thinks it is doesn’t know you.”

Ayaa felt a giddy grin spread across her face. “Thank you,” she whispered. And then, because Menachem and Chumi were singing loudly in the background and she needed Naftali to hear just how grateful she was to have someone who understood her, to have someone to get indignant on her behalf, she said it louder. “Thank you.”

He nodded and smiled.

“So you understand why I don’t want to meet with her stupid overpriced consultant?”

Naftali pulled at his beard. “As far as that goes,” he said slowly, “it does sound like a nice opportunity.”

Ayala slumped back in her chair. Naftali, too? If even he thought so, then she must be crazy.

“But if you’d heard the way Mrs. Reiner was talking,” she began. “As if she had veto power over everything—”

Ayala’s phone rang once again. Another Chesed Tzirel case?

“I’d personally attend 20 meetings with whatever expensive professional Mrs. Reiner wants if she’d only pay for a secretary to answer your calls,” Naftali muttered.

Ayala looked down at her phone and made an apologetic grimace as she picked it up. “It’s my mother.”

“Hi, Ma, everything okay?” Why did her heart pound every time her mother called, until she was reassured that there was no bad news?

“Oh yes, everything’s wonderful. Tatty’s been walking around much more. He insists he’s able to go to shul, and I have to fight with him every morning, but luckily Bella’s on my side.”

“Is Bella still coming every day? How much longer will your insurance pay for her?”

Her mother’s voice grew vague. “I don’t know. Tatty usually takes care of things like insurance. But she’s wonderful. She schleps laundry and groceries for me, she washes dishes and chops vegetables. You know how hard it is for me with my arthritis.”

“I thought she’s there to assist Tatty.”

“Yes, but how much assistance does Tatty really need? She was often just sitting on the couch with her phone, so why shouldn’t I ask for help, too?”

Ayala’s eyes creased. It wouldn’t do for her mother to get too dependent on this help. “I have a feeling the insurance won’t cover a home healthcare aide for much longer. Would you like me to check on that?”

“Yes, would you? And tell them how helpful she is and how lovely it would be if she could continue coming. Tell them about my arthritis.”

Ayala’s lips curled in amusement, but she shook her head. “Don’t count on it, Ma. An aide is very expensive.”

“Is it?” Her mother’s voice fell. “Too bad.”

Yes, it was too bad. Money, Ayala thought. Why did so much depend on money? For a wild moment, she thought of offering her mother a grant from the Chesed Tzirel fund, and then nearly laughed aloud.

“Anyway, you don’t need it,” she added firmly. “You were managing fine before Tatty’s accident.”

“Yes, I guess I was.” Ma sighed. “If only you were here.”

Ayala stiffened. “Why?”

“Because I miss you. It would be nice to see you.”

She relaxed. “Yeah, I miss you, too. Listen, I need to put the kids to sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

After she hung up, Ayala sat silently for a few moments, drumming her fingers on the table.

“What are you thinking?” Naftali asked gently.

She looked up. “About how different my mother and Dini’s mother are,” she said slowly. “How Mrs. Reiner can go ahead and do whatever she wants, because she has money, while my mother—”

Her voice broke as a fierce, protective wave washed over her. How dare Dini’s mother declare that they were changing the name Chesed Tzirel, when Ma had been so, so touched to have an organization named for her mother? Did being rich entitle you to everything?

Ayala’s fist clenched. “I’m not going to let her take over,” she murmured.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 872)