When we moved out of town, I became, in my vernacular Yiddish “ah groise meidel” (a big girl). I grew up in a chassidish, Hungarian-background home, with lots of love and letcho, warmth and polochintos. My parents doted on us, believed in us, somehow always knew what we needed, and built us to be confident and kind.

And, oh! The endless giving. The door of my parents’ home was always open, as were their hearts. Zeidy lived at our home for years (that would make for an article in its own right). Guests were a constant. Kokosh cake and wise words were regularly distributed to broken souls who wanted to unburden their hearts and whole souls in need of some advice.

We always joked that my mother was a therapist sans the official title. The secret, I believe, lay in her ability to listen. Somehow, she also managed to find out which mother was feeling overwhelmed and could do with some help, or which patient could use a hot bowl of her famous farina.

And so, it was natural that when I got married and settled two blocks away, my mother’s home was still my home.

Don’t get me wrong. My wonderful husband and beautiful children always came first. But Mommy was a close second. Very close. I needed her! If I was ever hungry (no comparing my food to hers) or just wasn’t in the mood of cooking, we hopped over. If I needed a short break from the demands of parenting, my understanding spouse took care of the children, and off I went to my mother’s house.

Long, boring Shabbos afternoons were nonexistent — we spent many happy hours there. A babysitter? Any one of my darling sisters would gladly come by. Work-related issues? Chinuch questions? Should I keep the new dress? The answers were only two blocks away.

I hardly ever baked. Mommy’s house on Erev Shabbos looked like a restaurant and bakery combined. All I had to do was pack up what I wanted — a piece of marble cake, challos, even farfel… anything. (It took me quite a while and three children to convince my mother that it was easier to cook the fish myself than to shlep it, sauce and all.)

Life continued blissfully, until we gradually outgrew our two-bedroom rental. I tried to convince my more realistic husband to stay in town. I needed to! My family, my job, my comforts… But I knew deep inside that with the steeply rising prices we would not be able to afford a bigger apartment.

And so we moved out of town. Said goodbye to all the comforts I took for granted. Goodbye to everything familiar and delicious. Of course, Tatty and Mommy would always be there for me, but not a short walk away. Not even a long one. Through highways and bridges, only by car. Would I survive? (Excerpted from Family First, Issue 614)