Ma looked stricken. “Ayala, I already told you — to move to a different country at our age is… I don’t know. I’m so used to everything here.” She rubbed her forehead. “When I go to the grocery store, I know exactly where to find our food. Tatty’s Shredded Wheat is in aisle four, my yogurts — the blueberry-peach that I like — are halfway down the dairy aisle, right next to the cottage cheese. And—”

Ayala interrupted her hurriedly. “Ma, there are plenty of grocery stores in Ramat Beit Shemesh, and you’ll get to know them, too.”

“Are there?” Her mother looked at her vaguely, still following her own train of thought. “And then, our mailman is such a doll, he always rings our bell and hands me the mail directly. And — and Stevie, the boy from across the street, do you know that I don’t even have to call him to shovel our snow, he does it on his own and just knocks when he’s ready to get paid?”

“There isn’t any snow in Ramat Beit Shemesh.”

Her mother blinked. “Right, how silly of me. But — what about Tatty’s shul? He’s been davening in the same minyan for so long, you know. And his Daf Yomi shiur, I don’t think he’d be able to give it up.”

Ayala gritted her teeth. They’d circled through this same conversation at least ten times over the past week. She understood her parents’ hesitations and fears, she really did; but how could they not understand that if even now they required so much help, it would only get harder for them as time goes on?

“Like I told you, I think you and Tatty should come for a visit to see for yourself what it’s like. It’s been so many years since you’ve been there.”

In all her 13 years living in Israel, her parents had come to visit once — and that had been a huge logistical feat. Making the flight arrangements, finding them a guest apartment, preparing their meals. She’d still been living in Maalot Dafna at the time, and Dini’s parents had also been in Israel at the time, on one of their frequent vacations. Dini had offered her apartment to Ayala’s parents, since the Reiners were hosting Dini and her young family in their hotel. Ayala still remembered the unexpected twinge of jealousy she’d felt. Not that she’d needed to be treated to a hotel stay. But she couldn’t help wonder what it would feel like to have her parents take care of her instead of the other way around.

Ma sighed. “Maybe we should. It would be nice to get away. And we haven’t seen your kids in so long. But where would we stay? Do you have room for us?”

“I’ll take care of all the arrangements, don’t worry,” Ayala said.

“Oh, then, that sounds lovely.”

Which was the way their past ten conversations had ended.

Ma was backing out of the room. “Well, I guess I should leave you to your packing. Do you…” She paused, glancing around at Ayala’s open suitcases, at the clothing scattered in piles on the floor.

Ayala stared at her.

“… Do you think you’ll be finished by twelve? I’d love your help getting lunch ready before we go to the doctor.”

Ayala let out a breath. “Of course, Ma.”

As her mother left, Ayala’s mouth twisted, mocking herself for the way her heart had briefly lifted. For a wild moment, she’d thought her mother had been about to offer to help her pack.

Dini clapped her hands for attention a second time. The CT volunteers who were still schmoozing next to the buffet table looked up and scurried to their chairs.

“Sorry to cut the fun short, but we’ve got lots to do today,” she said. “I have a ton of exciting updates for you, and we also need to move forward in your own roles, because you are literally the key to this campaign’s success. And that’s no joke.”

Chaya smirked, but Dini ignored her. “Each of you has one of our stunningly designed campaign folders next to your place. Please open it to find our stunningly designed ambassador guide.” She winked, and several of the ladies grinned back.

“Oooh, this is gorgeous!” Penina said, running her hand over the glossy paper with the embossed silver logo. “Did you design it yourself?”

Good ol’ Penina. Who said she was providing marriage mentoring for free? The loyalty she’d inspired in these girls was priceless.

“Of course,” she laughed. “And I’m also composing the song and producing the music video.”

She could have almost predicted Sarale’s wide-eyed squeal. “Really?”

“Speaking of,” Dini continued, “I just got the song recording and OMG, it’s awesome! I was crying!”

It wasn’t a lie, even if the tears had been the result of a sudden panic attack: Would people go for it? Would the song take off? Or would her first campaign be a major flop?

Luckily, Shuki and Temima had each managed to talk her out of her doubts before she needed to sell it to this crowd.

“I’m gonna play it for you today, so you can listen for yourself — and, of course, tell all your friends that you were the first to hear the newest music hit.”

There were a few giggles, a few shifts of anticipation. Dini held up her hand.

“But first, please open your very own stunning, professionally designed-not-by-me folder so we can go through exactly what you need to do in the coming weeks.” She paused as they flipped through the packet. She was proud of how impressive it looked; she’d almost been tempted to post the PDF on her family chat.

Almost.

“Don’t be scared off by the amount of information here. We’re going to go through it all. This is all here to help you: you have call scripts, email scripts, and WhatsApp scripts so that you’ll know exactly what to say when you’re reaching out to people. Here’s the list of important dates to remember.” She held up one of the papers. “A fact sheet about Chesed Tzirel.” She held up a second paper. “And here’s where you write down the names and contact info of everyone you’d like to reach out to. That’s what we’re going to do now.”

She nodded toward the cups of colorful pens on the tables. “I want you to brainstorm as many names as you can. Think of everyone you know — your parents, your aunts and uncles and cousins. Neighbors, old school friends. Think especially of people who might feel some connection to Chesed Tzirel, because they have family in Eretz Yisrael, or have gone through medical issues.” She hesitated. “And, of course, people you know who have money.”

She blushed faintly. This time, it wasn’t only Chaya who smirked — though it was she who said in an audible whisper, “Well, I know one person, at least.”

Once again, Sarale stayed on after it was over, wiping down the tables, folding the tablecloths, and keeping herself busy enough to linger after the last person had left.

“The girls all seemed into it,” Dini commented. She was itching to get back to her work; the video guy had sent her a long email this morning that needed answering, and she still had a long list of Chesed Tzirel families to call. Ayala might not approve, but she knew how to ask delicately. And, honestly, if they weren’t willing to help raise money for the organization, who would be?

Sarale beamed. “I definitely am. That song! I loooved it! And those prizes for raising the most money! A vacation in Switzerland, omigosh, Dini! That’s my dream, and Yisroel can’t complain if it’s free!”

Dini smiled modestly. One of her brothers owned a chalet in the Alps. They’d all teased him at the time about his whimsical purchase, but it had sure come in handy now when she’d sought sponsors for fundraising prizes that would make a splash.

Sarale was still prattling. “Still, I don’t know how I’m ever going to win. I mean, none of my relatives have money. Like, I’m sure they’ll give something if I ask, but… and Yisroel’s family, forget about it. He has one second cousin who’s made it big flipping houses or something, everyone talks about him, but it’s not like we’re close or—”

Dini murmured, “Mm-hmm” as she pushed chairs back into place, wondering how she could politely get rid of Sarale. She jumped when her phone rang, glanced at the screen and quickly picked up.

“Hi, Bracha.”

Dini had worried that Bracha’s unplanned revelation would make things awkward between them, but the opposite had happened. It seemed the relief of finally unburdening herself was too powerful to resist, and since then, Bracha and Dini had been in touch almost every day.

Dini turned to Sarale. “Sorry, I gotta take this call,” she mouthed. She added, “It might be long. Feel free to leave.”

Sarale waved her off as Dini walked into the den, saying, “How was your husband’s appointment yesterday with the nephrologist? Was it as bad as you feared?… What?” Her voice rose. “They’re talking about a transplant already? But I thought that was a good year away….”

The normally unflappable Bracha was overwrought, and Dini stayed on the phone with her for a good 45 minutes. When she finally hung up, she sat in place, trying to regain her own composure. Finally, with a sigh, she pulled herself up and headed back to the living room where she’d left her laptop. She startled when she saw Sarale sitting on the couch reading a magazine.

“Oh! I — uh — didn’t realize you were still here.” Frantically, she tried to remember if she’d closed the door to the den during her phone conversation. No, it was open. Had Sarale overheard?

A swift glance at her red face told her the answer.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 902)