Who am I to my late husband’s family?

As told to Shoshana Gross

T

he phone rings at 2:47 p.m. on a Tuesday, and I know before I answer that Chani’s getting engaged. I pick up on the third ring to her breathless voice, and I can hear girls squealing in the background.

“Tova! Tova, it’s official!”

I’m holding a spatula covered in lemon curd for the lemon tart I was making for Shabbos. The rich buttery crust sits cooling on the counter behind me. But now the spatula hovers in midair while I do the math: Chani was ten when I got engaged. The one who’d answered the door, gap-toothed and giggling, the first time we entered as a couple. Now she’s 19. Nine years. Heshy’s been gone for seven.

“Tova? Are you there?”

“I’m here,” I say, and my voice comes out normal and warm. “Chani, mazel tov! Tell me everything. Who’s the lucky boy?”

She launches into the details: The boy is from Monsey, learned in the Mir, his father’s a maggid shiur, and she just knew…. I make the right sounds, ask all the right questions. The lemon curd is loosening, dripping from the tip of the spatula.

“The vort’s tomorrow,” Chani continues. “Can you believe it? Tomorrow! Ma’s freaking out, she has no idea how to pull this together, and—”

“I’ll help,” I say. The words come out as automatically as breathing. “What does she need?” There’s a pause. I picture Chani’s face, the soft flicker of surprise, even though it shouldn’t be.

“Really? Tova, that would be amazing! Ma, Tova says she’ll help!” I wonder idly if I also once spoke in italics as my mother-in-law’s voice drifts through the phone.

“Tova’le, you know you don’t have to,” she begins.

“I want to,” I say, and I do. “Let me make salads. And I can do the fruit platters, maybe some miniatures? For sure, I can make mini lemon tarts. Text me a list.”

After I hang up, I stand in my kitchen staring at my spatula. The tart shell sits empty on the counter, waiting to be filled. I’ve perfected the recipe over seven years of family simchahs, the curd tart enough to make your mouth pucker, just enough sugar to meld bitter and sweet, both flavors living in the same bite. I scrape the runny curd off the counter and start again.