Or not exactly invisible. Aunt Chana still directs comments in my direction, and Little Leah (they literally call her that) insists on sitting next to me, which means I’m the lucky one who gets to ladle her more meatballs and make sure that the sauce doesn’t touch her rice.

But Raizy, Dini, Tzivi, even the boys, they chatter to each other as if I’m not even there.

Aunt Chana either doesn’t notice or puts on a very convincing act that she doesn’t see what’s going on. When Raizy pushes her chair back and takes her plate to the sink, Aunt Chana says, “Oh, Raizy, why don’t you show Ashira your room?”

Um, no thank you, I think, but then my aunt continues, “Show her the books we have up there, maybe she’ll want to borrow something.” She winks at me. “We have some great new novels, Bubby doesn’t go for those.”

In spite of everything, my heart lifts. If I can get something remotely interesting to read out of this visit, it’ll have been worth it.

Raizy isn’t particularly gracious about showing me around; she throws open the door to her room, says, “Here’s the books. Take a look, borrow whatever you want,” and then remembers that she urgently needs to get something from downstairs. She disappears, and I’m more than happy. Because this room is… girl heaven.

Raizy has her own room. There’s the usual desk, chair, wardrobe, mirror, but there’s also a gorgeous off-white dresser with matching jewelry box perched on top. Everything’s a soft pink, which you’d think could look juvenile, but here it just looks dreamy. There’s a shaggy rug and an oversized pouf and in one corner stands a bookshelf the same shade as the dresser, crammed with up-to-date novels.

Wow, wow, wow.

This is one dream room.

Raizy hasn’t shown up again, and I suspect she won’t until I’m gone, so I decide I might as well enjoy myself. I choose four books (a challenge, since there are so many I haven’t read) and curl up on the pouf with the first on the pile.

“Ashira?”

I jerk up, wondering what made Raizy deign to call me by my name, but it’s Aunt Chana, standing in the doorway with a half-smile on her face. “Thought you’d find something you like up here.”

I blush a little and notice the time. Have I really been reading for a full half hour?

“Can I take these back with me?” I ask, indicating the small pile on the floor.

“With absolute pleasure!” Aunt Chana says. “Let’s go downstairs, I’ll get you a bag.”

I leave the room reluctantly — it would have been so nice just to enjoy it a little longer — but then I realize Raizy is hovering behind her mother, clearly waiting until I leave to come into her room. I have to suppress an eye roll.

The ground floor is strangely quiet. Well, if all my cousins have rooms like Raizy does, then it’s no wonder. They’re probably lounging in their suites.

Aunt Chana takes the books from me and starts arranging them in a shopping bag.

“So, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she says, too casually. “How’s it going by Bubby and Zeidy, overall? It must be an adjustment, no?”

It’s super obvious that she’s been planning this, that maybe this is the reason behind her invitation in the first place. Oh-kaaaay.

“Well, it’s a little different from India,” I say, playing it safe.

“It must be.” Aunt Chana allows herself a sympathetic pause. “It’s also… very different to be living with grandparents than at home with your family. They’re… older. Less used to teens.”

Um, yeah, but… like, what? I shrug-nod. “Yeah, but it’s fine—” I start saying, but Aunt Chana waves a hand.

“Look, I really wanted to tell you… maybe at home, your mother wouldn’t mind you going out for an hour after school without saying anything… I mean, you didn’t go to school, but you know what I mean,” she amends hurriedly. “The point is, for Bubby and Zeidy… well, they’re not young. And they were really scared. You don’t know the area well — you can’t imagine what they were thinking.”

Wait, what?

Did she really call me over, take me aside, plan this whole strategic DMC to give me mussar about scaring Bubby and Zeidy?

Like, seriously?

I don’t even know what to say.

I’d felt terrible about my grandparents’ worry. (And yeah, super-duper mortified about the Shomrim guys.) But I’d honestly had no idea that they kept track of my comings and goings to that level of detail. Coming home from school at four forty-five or closer to six — isn’t that normal? Does Raizy come home immediately after school ends every day? Can’t a teen hang out with friends for a short while? It’s not like I have a phone; I can’t just let Bubby know my plans minute by minute.

Aunt Chana seems to take my silence for an invitation to keep going.

“You probably don’t realize this, Ashira,” she says, dropping her voice. “But Bubby gets worried pretty easily, especially in… these sorts of situations. You know, because of everything that happened.”

“Everything that happened?” The words emerge of their own volition; I have no idea what Aunt Chana is talking about.

“Yes… you know,” Aunt Chana says, deliberately vague, and I suddenly get the feeling that there’s something more going on, something I have no idea about. “In any case, Ashira, I just wanted to say something. Because Bubby’s really doing her best to have this work out well, and it would be a shame to—”

“Yeah, I get it, thanks,” I interrupt her. I don’t need to hear any more.

Aunt Chana takes a step back, and then smiles, light and airy once more. “Okay, great. You’re heading back now? Want a ride?”

“No, I like the fresh air,” I say — and then I shiver in the British downpour all the way back to Bubby’s house.

All I want to do now is call Ima. I flop down on my bed and dial the access code — yup, I already know it by heart. Then I punch in my mother’s number.

It rings once, twice, three times, and eventually goes to voicemail.

I check my watch and calculate rapidly. It’s well past midnight in India, but Ima keeps late hours — she’s often up till at least one a.m.

Oh, well. My luck that she’s actually had an early night tonight.

I lie on my bed, feeling strangely lethargic, and wishing I had something to do. Someone to talk to. Even a book to read….

That’s when I realize that, in the swirl of confused and hurt feelings, I’d left the carefully selected books behind in Aunt Chana’s house.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 950)