So I stopped complaining and tried to tap into the girls around me — who were they really? What were they interested in? I was surprised by what I found. I was a searching teen, and now I was meeting other like-minded souls. When I looked past the frummy externals and the identical long pleated skirts, there was depth to the people around me. A depth one couldn’t find in a movie, or in the song of a stranger singing her heart out about a world where only externals matter.

But it was hard to put shiurim into a brain so filled with “other stuff.” Initially, I just sat through the lessons, my head in a daze — listening but not really hearing. But slowly the shiurim penetrated the fog, drowning out the Hollywood noise in my head, filling me with something I hadn’t known I was missing. I loved it. This was true beauty.

It wasn’t an instant process. I still wondered what was happening in my favorite series and pondered scenes from old films as I fell asleep at night. Some days, I’d call home and ask Lay Lay what was going on with our favorite characters. First I asked without compunctions, then guilt wormed its way into my heart, until somehow the episodes that would have excited me in the past just seemed to be so mundane, almost cheap.

When I felt myself longing for the movies I’d escaped into in the past, I tried to distract myself with friends, chesed, visits to the Kosel, and mekomos hakedoshim, until my heart was bursting with things that filled me in a way I never knew they could. A part of me that I’d never explored was opening. I was scared to admit it, but I liked who I was becoming.

When Tatty paid my ticket so I could fly back for Pesach later that year, I looked like my sister Tehilla — minus the sheitel of course. Tatty was so proud. He introduced me to so many people, gushing, “This is my daughter in seminary in Israel.”

“So special, such nachas,” they’d reply. I would blush. Did I deserve this? Was I really the person wearing these modest clothes?

Leah couldn’t get over the change in me. She was so excited to have me back, but she took one look at me and laughed. “You’ve totally frummed out, Tam!” she shrieked, flinging her arms around me.

I hugged her back. “Yup.”

Leah looked me up and down. “So… no more films, music, late-night parties with the gossip, huh?”

I looked down at my sensible shoes. “Right, Leah.”

“I hear,” was all she replied.

That Pesach, I made it my mission to make a baalas teshuvah out of Leah. Once this idea took root in my mind, I didn’t question it — I raced headlong into it. I was flying high from seminary, the inspiration lifting me, pushing me onward. Truth is, I was almost delirious in my own excitement and enthusiasm at having discovered “the correct way.” Besides, I needed Lay Lay in this with me. I had stepped off the plane determined to stay strong, to stick to my newfound principles — I needed a partner in this. Leah was the perfect solution. So long as I could fly with her, I’d succeed.

But she wasn’t the one who’d heard all those inspiring shiurim and lived in Eretz Yisrael for six months. She, like me, was thirsting for connection — I could see that in her — but without the anchor of seminary that I’d had, she struggled to keep up. So I flew as she shuffled. My eyes rose heavenward as hers locked down. But I didn’t back down: I begged. I pleaded. I davened.

By the end of Pesach vacation, there was a breakthrough. Leah promised to stop watching films. Together, we threw out all our old ones — remembering each one and rehashing the scenes. Originally, I had wanted to burn them with the chometz but we only reached that point on Isru Chag. We threw them in the dumpster and then watched from the window as the garbage collectors took the whole lot away. I felt liberated.

“Isn’t this amaaazing, Leah!” I enthused. “We’ve both come so far!”

“Yeah,” Leah answered dully. I was too excited to notice the wistful expression on her face.

A flurry of goodbyes, and I was on my way back for the last few months of my precious seminary year. Tatty was teasing me about shidduchim already, but I was in no way ready. I couldn’t bear to tell him that, when I was finally giving him some nachas. Leah stood at the airport, tears in her eyes. “How’m I gonna manage to stay strong without you?”

My heart tore. It was true. I was so afraid for her. Would she be strong enough on her own?

“We’ll speak, like, every day, ’kay?”

Leah nodded, but both she and I knew it wouldn’t happen.

Those last few months of seminary, I soared higher. My heart was open; I was ready to accept and absorb everything I could.

When it was time to come home, my father asked me over the phone about shidduchim. I told him I was ready. Why not? I was frum, idealistic, and inspired to build a Torah home. He said he’d look into it.

I packed my midi-skirts, folded my 60-denier tights, wrapped my refined earrings, and prepared for the flight. I couldn’t wait to see Lay Lay again. I had so much to share with her and was so sure she’d want to listen. After all, hadn’t we spent Pesach discussing this type of stuff?

But when I walked into her bedroom that first night back, she shut the laptop in front of her with a bang. I bit my lip. Oh.

Those first few weeks home, I eagerly tried to impart some of the wonderful lessons I’d learned in seminary to Leah, hoping it would make an impact as it had with me. I shared stories that had shaken me, inspired me, and turned me around. She wasn’t interested.

“Nice story,” she’d say, pulling her coat on. “Gotta run, Tam. Have a great day, yeah?”

I tried other tactics. I told her of the nights I thought about our favorite serials and how they plagued my mind as I reviewed my homework. How I was able to overcome those thoughts by doing chesed, or going to daven at the Kosel. Leah just smirked. “Cute,” she’d reply, walking away.

I was sharing my deepest feelings with her, opening up a vulnerable part of myself, but her only reaction was to roll her eyes and race out. Where was she going all the time?

I was persistent. She was going to change. Going to see the light. She had to! How could her neshamah be so… turned off?

Nothing worked. All I did was push her away.

Our cozy chats, our warm friendship —it was a thing of the past. Leah was like a stranger to me and I to her. I couldn’t understand where I was going wrong. I tried so hard to inspire her, but she wasn’t interested anymore. Why?

Over time I realized that something must have happened during those few short months that I was away. As I soaked up whatever seminary had to offer, Lay Lay was pulled further and further away. By what or by whom? No one was giving me any answers.

Leah was home less and less, so she wasn’t around to see me leave on dates, and I didn’t tell her. Some nights, as I walked past her room, strains of unfamiliar music would waft out. I wanted to go in, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her. Besides, what would I say?

Leah started smoking. The smell stuck to her clothes and made us gag. And if it was possible, Ma looked even sadder than before. Sometimes I would see her crying when she thought no one was watching, but who was I to comfort her?

Tatty kept asking why he never saw Leah. I made up excuses for her, trying to protect him from the truth. But one day, I gave up and blurted out the facts.

“Tatty, Leah doesn’t care about Yiddishkeit anymore. She listens to music and watches movies until the wee hours of the morning, and now she smokes and hangs out with I-don’t-know-who.”

Tatty turned pale in shock and I was scared he was going to have a heart attack. He sat down heavily in a chair. “What did I do wrong?” he murmured.

I fled the room. I couldn’t take the heartache anymore.

I walked home slowly, pondering my situation. I was sorry for Tatty, I was sorry for Leah, but I had my own problems to deal with. Shidduchim were tough — there were so many nos. Why were there strikes against me just because my parents were divorced? To top it off, whenever something good came up, they heard about Leah, and the whole thing would be off.

Was it my fault Leah acted like this? I’d tried to change her, but she wasn’t willing to change. So why did I have to suffer for it?

I knew Yechiel was special when I first met him. Something about him oozed acceptance, and as one date turned into two and then into five, I knew I’d found a keeper. But he was so normal, why would he want me?  A regular, frum boy with a good head and an inquiring mind — he was everything I dreamed of.

We spoke about hashkafah, about the type of home we wanted to build. He admired my strength and what it had taken for me to become who I was today. But most of all, he was a real person. None of that fake stuff, none of the fluff, just a real, solid ben Torah. And no, he wasn’t intimidated by my background. I asked him point-blank.

“You marry the girl,” he said, “not her family.”

When he proposed, I could barely eke out a yes. I felt so overwhelmed and grateful.

Tears of joy and nachas surrounded us at our l’chayim. Ma kept hugging me, telling me that she couldn’t believe I’d reached this stage. Tatty just beamed at Yechiel — it seemed that his new son-in-law would be the ben Torah he never raised.

The entire night I was looking for my sister. But Lay Lay never came.

A date was set for the chasunah, and preparations began in a frenzy. Tatty offered to take on most of the expenses, but even he hadn’t realized how much it costs to outfit a kallah. Tensions were high, and Leah seemed to disappear more and more often. I was so busy that I barely noticed. I didn’t want to notice.

The night before my wedding, I took a deep breath and knocked on my sister’s bedroom door.

“Hello?” she called out in surprise.

It’s now or never, I told myself. “I… it… it’s Tamar.”

The door opened. A disheveled Leah stood there in pajamas, without make-up on. There were large rings around her eyes, as though she hadn’t slept in weeks. “What do you want?” Her words were not aggressive; in fact, there was desperation in her tone.

“Leah, I… can I come in?”

She held open the door reluctantly. The room was a mess. I gingerly picked up clothing so that I could sit on the end of her bed. Leah remained standing.

“Lay Lay, I—” and suddenly I couldn’t speak. I wanted to say so much but found that I had no words.

She stared at me, unblinking.

“I miss you.”

There was silence and then, “Is that why you came in here? To tell me that?”

I broke down. “Leah, don’t make this hard for me. You’re… you’re my sister and my onetime best friend. How have we become so far apart?”

Leah turned to face the window. I sat there bewildered, breathing in the painful silence.

Her room was mostly the same as I remembered it, just messier. The bed was unmade. Laundry was piled up in the corner. The light bulb had dimmed over time, no one having bothered to change it. The room screamed neglect.

The walls were devoid of pictures where smiling faces had once been. I looked around for mementos of the two of us together — something, anything to remind me that I was still part of her life. But there were none. Glancing around the room, I realized that during these past few months, Leah hadn’t been filling her life; she had been emptying it.

“Leah, I’m getting married tomorrow and—” My voice broke. I forced the lump back down my throat. “I, I want to ask you mechilah.”

Leah looked shocked. “What?”

I sat silently, not trusting my voice to speak again for now.

“Did I just hear you asking me for mechilah?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“For… for not getting you,” I stuttered. “For not helping you become more frum. You know…” I finished lamely when I saw the surprise on her face.

And then, for the first time in months, Lay Lay began to laugh. “Wait. You’re asking me for mechilah because you didn’t make me frum. Did I get that right?”

I nodded uncertainly.

“That’s just too funny.”

Now I was puzzled.

“Here I am, thinking I’m the worst sister ever, like, you’re never gonna forgive me cuz I didn’t listen to you, didn’t keep strong like I promised I would, and worst of all, I never came to your engagement.” She paused. “And then, you come to me, asking for forgiveness. Wow, Tam, you’re a tzadeikes!”

I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted by her compliment. This wasn’t the heart-to-heart I had geared myself up for.

“Um, thanks?” I offered.

“Tam. You’re too cute. Listen. My stuff, what I’m going through, is totally not your fault. I never went to seminary. I never had the experience you did. All that holy stuff you shared just didn’t talk to me.” She looked at me, saw my wounded expression, and softened. “I’m sorry, I thought you realized already.”

I shook my head. How could I have been so blind?

“Tamar, I’m happy for you. Really. I’m sorry I can’t show it, there’s just too much stuff going on in my life right now.”

“Leah,” I blurted out. “Are you happy?”

Her face twisted into a grimace as she looked down at her hands. “Please don’t ask me that,” she whispered.

I didn’t need to ask anymore. I already knew. “Lay Lay, don’t torture yourself anymore. Please, come back! You could go to seminary, get married… have a life! Please.”

Leah stared at the floor.

“Leah, don’t do it for me or for Tatty, but for yourself. You’ll be so much happier. Please!” I begged.

I thought I saw a small, sad smile on her lips before her face shuttered. “Tamar, thank you for caring, but… I… I just can’t. And please, don’t bother me about it or question me. This is my life and the way I need to live it. When I need you, I’ll come to you. Just leave me alone. Okay?”

The words were harsh, but she didn’t sound defiant — she sounded defeated. Her eyes were so small and sad.

“I’m sorry, Leah. I hope you’re moichel me.”

She nodded quickly.

I stood up and started walking toward the door. Then I turned abruptly. “Lay Lay, just tell me one thing: Are you coming to my wedding?”

She shrugged. I bit my lip.

“Maybe.”

Before my tears could come, Leah ran over and grabbed me into a hug. “Mazel Tov, Tamar,” she said softly. “Mazel tov.”

I escaped the room.

Throughout the exhilarating, joyous day of my chasunah, I waited for my sister, a flash of pain marring the otherwise beautiful simchah.

I searched for her at the badeken as the veil came over my eyes. I searched for her as throngs of people surrounded us on the way to the yichud room. I searched for her at the dinner. But she never came.

In the family pictures, there was an empty space where Leah should have been. They were all there — Mommy, Tatty, Danny, Mordy, and Tehilla with her husband and baby. Through all those cheesy grins, my heart was aching. Where are you, Lay Lay?

It was my father who shook me out of my gloom. He took me to the side for a moment while the photographer took shots of the chassan.

“Tamar, you can’t act like this. You look like you’re going to the gallows. Yechiel is a wonderful guy. How do you think he feels to see his kallah so miserable? Is Leah more important to you than him?”

“But Tatty, Leah is my sister, flesh and blood! And Yechiel I barely even know. That’s not a fair question!”

My father looked me in the eye, his voice serious. “Tamar, Yechiel is your only husband, your one and only. He must be the most important person in your life. You are absolved of kibbud horim in order to honor your husband. That’s because he must be your life. Yes, we all worry about Leah, but right now and forever after, your husband is more important.”

I swallowed the rebuke and the lesson, forcing a smile back onto my face. “Okay, Tatty. I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ever ask, Tamar.”

So I smiled more freely and pretended I was happier than ever while my heart ached, but no one could tell.

At the end of the last dance, someone came over to me and handed me a crumpled note.

“From your sister,” she said.

I grabbed it and unfolded the small scrap of lined paper. Two shaky words were written in Hebrew along with a signature.

בוט לזמ

Leah

I pushed the note up the tight sleeve of my wedding gown. She had come.

Years have passed.  I wish my little ones knew their Aunt Leah, but to them, she is a faceless name. Sometimes Ma tells me what Leah’s up to, other times the silence speaks louder than words.

One day, my oldest son came over to me — he must have heard me talking to Ma about Leah.

“Mommy,” he asked anxiously, “is Aunt Leah lost?”

“Why would you say that, sweetie?” I asked, trying to mask my surprise.

“’Cuz you said you don’t know where she is anymore.”

“No…” I began, but then paused. What was I supposed to say? “Aunt Leah isn’t lost, she’s just… far away.” Physically and spiritually, I added in my mind.

He snuggled onto my lap. “Oh.” A pause, and then, “Mommy, could I get lost?”

“Chas v’shalom!”

My little boy looked up into my eyes seriously. “Mommy, if I get lost, will you find me?”

I held him close. “Yes,” I whispered. “If chas v’shalom you do get lost, I’ll do everything within my power to find you.”

He snuggled close and I caressed his cheeks, but my thoughts were in another place. Lay Lay, am I doing everything I can to find you?   

*Some details changed to protect privacy.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 839)