I

was always acutely conscious of the fact that I come from a small family.I’m one of two children, and, unlike most of the frum people I know, I don’t have tons of cousins and extended family. When I was growing up, my family lived far away from my parents’ siblings, most of whom were nonreligious, and we didn’t have much to do with them or their children. My grandparents all passed away by the time I was young.

My parents are quiet, introverted people, and, busy as they were making a living, they didn’t have much of a social life when I was growing up. They rarely attended community events or simchahs and hardly ever invited guests. We lived in a large Jewish community where we were mostly invisible, especially since we lived on an out-of-the-way block with no frum neighbors. Plus, the school I attended was in a different neighborhood, so I had no friends living anywhere near me.

I felt envious whenever I heard girls in my class chatting about their cousins’ weddings and bar mitzvahs, comparing notes about their family Chanukah and Purim parties, or regaling each other with tales of the Yom Tov they had spent with aunts, uncles, and cousins or nieces, nephews, and married siblings. I never attended any family simchahs. My parents never made any Chanukah or Purim parties. We were never part of a big, noisy Yom Tov seudah.

In high school, I often slept over at friends’ houses for Shabbos and Yom Tov, because I wanted to be with my friends — and their busy, lively families. I dreamed of one day being part of a large extended family and having tons of relatives.

Apparently, that wasn’t meant to be. I married someone who had fewer siblings than I did: none, to be exact. His parents were divorced, and he had little connection with his father. Nor did he have much extended family to speak of.

We started our married life in Eretz Yisrael, in a Yerushalayim neighborhood populated by many English speakers. As my luck would have it, we moved into a building where no other American couples lived. Our neighbors were all older, nonreligious Israelis, and once again I found myself wishing I could have friends nearby.

We couldn’t travel to the US for Pesach the first year we were married because I would have missed too many days of work. Practically every other American couple I knew in Yerushalayim was spending Pesach with family.

I remember sitting at the Seder table with my husband, Yehoshua, that year and exclaiming, “I can’t believe it! Our first Pesach, and we’re all alone!”

“What’s wrong with that, Adina?” Yehoshua wondered.

“It’s so lonely!” I complained.

We were invited out for most of the meals that Pesach, but being the only people at the table not related to our hosts made me feel even more awkward and self-conscious.