“Yeah. Illness takes a toll on the whole family,” she said. “It’s one of those truths that I never fully appreciated until I started Chesed Tzirel.”

“But it’s especially hard on the wife,” Bracha murmured.

Ayala threw her a glance; she was taking this hard. Trying to lighten the mood, she said, “Isn’t everything always hardest on the wife?”

But Bracha was still frowning. “Yes,” she said softly.

“How do you like this one?”

Dini leaned forward to peer at herself in her sheitelmacher’s large mirror.

“Mmm. Too blonde?”

Zahava squinted. “It’s the same color as your band fall.”

“You’re right. I’ve been meaning to get that dyed. I think a shade darker would look better. I dunno, maybe my skin tone’s been changing as I age? Is that a thing?”

Zahava snickered. “Right, you’re so old.” She sifted through the pile of Yafis on her table. “What about this?”

As Dini slipped the sheitel on, she felt a small twinge of guilt. Just yesterday, Sarale had sat in her living room and confessed that she had to think twice before getting her sheitel washed, because the hundred shekels made a dent in their careful budget. And here she was, buying herself a new 30,000-shekel wig, just because Ma had been horrified when she’d commented that the sheitel she’d worn to her nephew’s bar mitzvah was four years old.

Dini swiveled back and forth. It was straighter than her current Shabbos sheitel; did she like the look?

“What do you think?”

“With soft layers, it will look amazing,” Zahava said confidently.

Dini frowned as she continued to gaze at the mirror.

Zahava clucked her tongue, her eyes twinkling. “You don’t trust me? How many years have we been together, Dini?”

Dini grinned. “Ha! You saw me during my absolute worst shanah rishonah freak attacks.”

Zahava chuckled. “You’ve come a long way since then.”

Dini wasn’t sure if she was referring only to her ability to handle sheitel crises or something more. She’d spent a lot of time at the sheitelmacher in those days, in an effort to get her wigs just right — and also her marriage. Did Zahava remember the way Dini had poured out her woes, as if she weren’t a sheitelmacher but a therapist? Did she remember listening to Dini pout about her husband going out for leil shishi cholent with his friends instead of staying home with her? Or complain that he consistently came late to morning seder, and why couldn’t he be a masmid she could be proud of, like her friend Ayala’s husband?

Did she remember giving Dini Rebbetzin Greenblatt’s number and kindly suggesting she call her? Dini had been mortified at first; did Zahava think she had problems with her marriage? She didn’t! At least, no more than her friends seemed to have; they were forever laughing about their husbands’ infuriating behaviors — “Men, what do you expect?” — when they got together. Except for Ayala. Of course, not Ayala.

Dini had marched out of Zahava’s salon that day, cheeks burning, determined to find a new sheitelmacher pronto. She’d come home to find Shuki at home, sleeping on the couch smack in the middle of the morning.

She’d cleared her throat loudly. “Don’t you have morning seder?”

His eyes had flown open. “Schneider’s in Monsey for a chasunah.”

Her eyes had narrowed. “So when your chavrusa’s away, kollel is cancelled?”

Shuki had flinched, then shrugged and leaned his head back down on the couch. “Where were you just now?”

She’d hesitated for a split second. “At the sheitelmacher. My weekday sheitel is still driving me crazy. There’s something off with the bangs. Ma is furious. She wants me to fly in and have Raizy fix it, but I told her that’s ridiculous.” She’d pressed her lips together, feeling for some odd reason like she wanted to cry.

Shuki had looked at her for a moment, and Dini had held her breath, sure he wouldn’t get what she was so upset about, bracing herself for a well-deserved retort. (“Happy to hear you’ve done something meaningful with your morning.”)

Instead, his eyes had softened, and he’d said, “I’m sorry, that sounds frustrating. But I’m glad you’re holding firm. I’d rather you stay here.”

She’d been so completely disarmed by his unexpected sweetness that she’d actually rushed into her bedroom and burst into tears. And later that day, she’d called Rebbetzin Greenblatt and haltingly asked her for some marriage mentoring.

Now, with a small smile, she replied to Zahava, “Yes, I definitely have come a long way.” And she thought about Sarale and wondered what she could do to help — the way others had helped her.

Once again, Shuki came home from his office looking completely worn out.

Chaviva immediately jumped up. “Good, Tatty, you’re home. I have a math test tomorrow, and I don’t understand a thing!”

Shuki rubbed his eyes. “I’m kinda sick of numbers at the moment. How about I help you with your Chumash test instead?”

“But I don’t have a Chumash test!”

“So tell your math teacher you accidentally studied for the wrong test.”

He sat down on the recliner.

“But I’m going to fail!” Chaviva wailed. “What should I do?”

“Pretend to be sick and stay home,” he advised with a yawn. “I won’t tell Mommy if you don’t.”

Chaviva giggled.

“Ha, ha.” Dini pursed her lips, then shot him a worried look. “Are you okay?” she asked, for the hundredth time that week.

He flashed her a quick smile. “Wonderful. Why do you ask?”

Dini sighed, wishing he would stop hiding whatever it was he was keeping from her. “Because you’re not acting yourself.”

Shuki raised an eyebrow. “Sorry to shock you, but playing sick to skip a test happens to be something I’ve actually done.”

Dini rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I was talking about,” she muttered. She couldn’t help add, “Though I don’t picture you the type to skip a test because you didn’t study. You’d probably take the test and ace it anyway.”

Shuki laughed. “I’m glad to hear you have so much confidence in me. You see, Chaviva,” he said, stretching his arms. “Mommy thinks you can get a hundred even without understanding a thing.”

Chaviva’s mouth widened frantically.

Shuki cut her off. “After dinner,” he said. “I’ll help you after I eat.”

Shuki looked even more tired yet also more relaxed after finishing his study session with Chaviva. Dini decided it was the right time to approach him with her idea.

“I wanted to run something by you,” she began slowly. “I told you about that girl who’s been calling me recently for advice?”

He nodded.

“So I was trying to think of something I can do to help them. You know, they’re feeling this major financial stress, and it sounds like it’s putting a strain on their marriage. Sar— I mean, she was telling me that she can’t even afford to get her sheitel washed! She’s been doing it herself, can you believe it? A brand-new kallah!”

Shuki raised a shoulder. “She sounds resourceful.”

Dini’s brow furrowed. “Whatever. I was thinking… tell me if this is crazy… but, what if we could give her husband money to buy her something big, like — like another sheitel?” Her words came out in a rush. “We could tell him there’s a local fund for newlyweds, so he wouldn’t have to be embarrassed from us. And imagine how amazing she’ll feel when her husband gives her such a huge gift, when she knows how careful he is with their budget! Think what it will do to their shalom bayis!” She beamed.

But Shuki was frowning. “That’s very generous,” he said, “But, um, yeah, it’s crazy.”

Dini swallowed. “Why?”

“Because if they’re having budget issues, the answer isn’t to throw a luxury sheitel at them.”

Dini’s breath caught from his sharpness. “I wasn’t saying this would solve their financial problems,” she said, stung. “I thought it would be a gift to, y’know, show her he cares.”

He looked at her. “You’re used to gifts coming with high price tags. It doesn’t sound like this what’s-her-name Tzirelette is. It would just be setting her up for disappointment next time he buys her a twenty-shekel mug for her birthday.”

Dini looked down at her hands, feeling stupid. “I was just trying to help,” she mumbled. “Since she reached out to me.”

Shuki was silent for a moment. At last, he said, “Dini, you have a lot more than money to offer.”

Ayala stifled a yawn, trying to keep her eyes open as Naftali spoke about the new learning program being started at his kollel. Invariably, by the time she had a few minutes in her day to actually sit down and talk to her husband, her brain was already in shutdown mode.

She forced herself to stand up. Washing dishes would keep her awake.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Great. Bracha’s training is going really well. I think she’ll be ready soon to start transitioning into taking on a few easier cases on her own.” She smiled at Naftali. “This was one of your more brilliant ideas, I must say.”

He smiled back. “What a compliment!”

Ayala’s phone rang. She hesitated; she should really ignore it, she knew. But what if it was an emergency?

“Check who it is,” Naftali said, and Ayala flashed him a grateful smile. She’d left her phone on the dining room table, and by the time she reached it, it had stopped ringing.

She looked down at the missed call. Zev?

Her heart began to race. It was never good news when her brother called. Quickly, she dialed back.

“Hi, Zev, how’s it going? Is everything okay with Tatty?”

Last she’d spoken to her parents, her father seemed to be getting back to himself, and they’d cut down the aide to twice a week.

Her brother’s breath came loudly over the phone. “Tatty’s fine. It’s Mommy. She — she’s had a heart attack. I need your help now.”

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 885)