“And you know we’ve always given you extra support,” Ima reminds her. “B’ezras Hashem, He should give us the koach, we’ll help Chaya, too. Do you remember that night, when you came to us in a taxi with three sick kinderlach? Now I can tell you what I couldn’t say then — I was so tired that night, I was falling asleep on my feet. All I wanted was to sink into bed. But the moment you came in, I put all my tiredness aside. I started making beds and taking care of the children. You came first, there was no doubt in my mind. We admired you — the way even then, you wouldn’t think of disturbing Shua’s learning.”

Any moment, the tears will be flowing like a river. Nechami forces them back, builds a hasty dam. Ima seems impervious to her hints.

The door opens — it’s the kallah meidel herself. She sees the brooms and her eyes go dim. “Whoa, what a day I had.” She throws down her bag. “Hi, Ima, hi, Nechami. And who’s this? My delicious Yosef’sefon!”

“I’m not Yosef’sefon,” Yossi chirps. “I’m Yossi.”

Did you say anything to Ima? Chaya’s eyes ask, as she sits down to eat.

I didn’t, and I’m not going to, Nechami’s eyes answer. Tell her yourself. If you want.

She goes to the living room. Memories of Dudi’s wedding come to her. And they are heavy. A hurt chassan who must try to smooth things over with his kallah in the yichud room after her new mother-in-law scowled at her. Ima, dragging her feet into the simchah hall, bitter, with slumped shoulders. A band of sisters-in-law, cool and reserved instead of warm and welcoming. The kallah’s family, taken aback. (You’d think their son was something so special, the way they’re acting, their eyes said.) Amid that festival of hurt feelings, all eyes were on her — Nechami, the married daughter, the mature one. They looked to her to smile, to show some joy, to mend, to soothe. And to take the kallah’s hands and dance ecstatically with her through the white floral arches her friends were holding (Oy, her friends and their wild hooting… better not even to recall that memory).

“Ima,” Yossi calls, turning away from the toys and coming toward her.

“Yosef’sefon,” Nechami answers, using her sister’s favorite pet name.

“Ima’s crying?” he asks.

“No,” she replies hastily. “Of course not. Ima’s thinking, that’s all.”

“I’m going out,” says Chaya with a charming smile, packing a portable flash drive and a receipt pad into her oversized handbag. “A client of mine is showing a slideshow I made, and I have to be on site to make sure it’s working properly. And of course to get paid.”

“Where is this?” Ima asks worriedly.

“At Shaarei HaIr.”

“What it’s about?” Nechami asks.

“They’re marketing a new product, a powder that turns to juice when you mix it with water.”

Nechami smiles. “Old as the hills. When I was little they called it Zip. I loved it. What did you make for them?”

“So I made them a slideshow for the main presentation, with the background data and images for all the speakers,” Chaya said, “and then I also created a clip that repeats in a loop all through the marketing event, for when people just walk around and browse.” Her sister-in-law Yaffa’le had actually been the one who recommended her, but she knew better than to announce that in front of Ima.

The door closes and Ima turns to Nechami. “She’s so talented and hardworking.” she says, clearly proud. “She’ll have no trouble bringing in parnassah to a Torah home. We’re glad we invested in the best equipment for her. She has jobs all the time, already now, and she hasn’t even finished seminary yet.”

• ••

“What would you say to a Bais Yaakov girl who wants a boy who’ll go out to work?”

“What?” Moriah narrows her eyes. Next to her sits Yaffa’le, and together they face Chaya. The trio is sitting on chairs in the empty event hall, playing with leftover helium balloons.

“Her parents want a masmid for her. A talmid chacham,” Chaya explains. “She’s not sure she has what it takes to live a life like that. She doesn’t want to carry the burden of parnassah alone. But she’d hate to throw away a tzaddik.”

Besides, these glitzy marketing events seem pretty nice. Although Ima would faint here among this crowd, with their thumbs swiping across their screens.

But they’d had a great time.

All the ladies were smiling. They knew how to enjoy themselves.

And they were frum. Completely. Like, after all this fun, they’d even get Gan Eden, presumably.

“Marriage takes a lot of hard work,” Yaffa’le warns her. “And if parnassah is the problem, your friend could take a good guy who’s a yarei Shamayim and who’s kovei’a itim. But it sounds to me like she just wants to play around. She wants the good life. Am I right?”

Chaya replays the event. Piles of freebies. Mugs, water bottles, swag in all shapes and colors. Influencers walking around, snapping pictures, updating their feeds. Marketing agents. A show. A singer. Glowing fog, changing hues, diffusing fragrance.

Then Moriah, woman of steel and public relations, fixes her gaze on Chaya, naive seminary girl.

“Tell your friend she’s being silly,” she says curtly. “She should marry the talmid chacham and be happy.”

“Right!” Yaffa’le gives a vigorous nod.

“And you two will go on having fun here?” Chaya asks, her eyes all innocence.

“Oh, come on!” Moriah chides her. “Don’t be so superficial. Your sister-in-law says you’re a smart girl.”

Chaya won’t back off. “Why don’t you two send your husbands out to learn full-time?”

“Because I don’t have a husband to send out anymore,” Moriah answers evenly. “Not that he was ever the type. It’s been three years. I went through Gehinnom already before that. And even on the days when I was almost over the edge, when I didn’t want to take another breath, I’d put on my makeup, smile, and take a selfie with a glass of fresh juice in my hand. And I’d lie to all my friends and post, ‘Another great day begins.’ So don’t take me as an example of anything.”

“Oh.” For a moment, Chaya’s at a loss for words.

“And because I was the sort of girl no serious learner would ever consider. So it’s not like it was even an option for me.”

“You could have chosen not to be like that,” Chaya ventures.

“Okay. But that’s the reality. And I don’t think Yaffa’le should bring you to events like this.”

Moriah goes to the fog machine, to pack it up and bring it back to the office. “You’re a good girl, young and confused. You see the wrapping and the glitter. You don’t see an inch beyond that. You have no idea what every one of the women who came here today is carrying on her back, under her expensive sheitel. You absolutely shouldn’t be here.”

Chaya tries to change the subject. “How does that machine work?” she says, peering at it. “Did you notice it put out a different fragrance for every song, like, to match the song?”

“Did I notice?” Moriah almost gives her an affectionate smack. “I’m the one who arranged it. Some machines use liquid smoke, and some use dry ice.”

“And here’s where Dudi should come in and start explaining what dry ice is,” says Yaffa’le. “It must be some kind of frozen gas that releases vapors when it comes into contact with something or other. But Chaya, do me a favor and don’t tell your mother I brought you here. First of all because I didn’t bring you, you insisted on coming. And second of all, because I really don’t need her getting furious at me — she already filled her quota on that a long time ago.”

And she hasn’t even begun her quota with me, Chaya muses, a good Yerushalmi girl on her way home.

• ••

At home, between seven and eight, Nechami lets herself fall apart. This is the only hour of the day when Shua can help with the children. But now she wants him to help her. To help Ima. To help everyone.

“Why are you crying?” he asks, behind the closed kitchen door.

“Because Chaya….” She chokes on the words. “I… I’m afraid… she’ll turn out like Dudi….”

He waits. He knows there’s more.

“Because she saw… how hard it was for me… those first few years.” Nechami tries to catch her breath, to speak coherently. “Maybe that’s why… she started… getting tempted to go Dudi’s way…. He and Yaffa’le go around all day with million-dollar smiles….”

“Your sister is a big girl,” Shua says. “And if she wants to see only how hard it was, instead of seeing the beauty and stability of our house, the happiness and the ruach, then that’s her choice.”

His words are like a floodgate to stop her tears. They’re what she wanted to hear.

So why was she crying?

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 850)