Sometimes we’d walk down Central Avenue together, and Shaina was so much fun to go shopping with. She knew just what clothes would look good on me and what I should try on. I was out with her once when I found a brown dress. “I have a gold belt at home that would go perfectly with that,” she said. Later that day, she dropped it by my house.

“That’s okay,” I said, trying to hand it back to her. “You don’t have to give me the belt off your waist!”

“I want you to have it. Honestly. It goes perfectly with your outfit.”

I tried it on, and it really did match perfectly. That’s just the kind of person Shaina is — bubbly, generous, fun.

Even though I loved Shaina, she slowly started to take up more and more of my time. Instead of parting ways for the day after our morning walk, now she was coming to my house afterward to drink some iced tea and cool down, staying for an hour or more. When we weren’t together, she was constantly texting or calling. Sometimes, she’d ring my doorbell again in the afternoon because she’d forgotten to tell me some detail from a story she’d relayed that morning.

Whenever she’d overstay her welcome, I’d drop hints that I had things to take care of. I’d look at my watch and say, “Well, it was great talking to you, but I probably have to start getting dinner in the oven.” But she would simply sigh, “Oh, I know. Where has the time gone?” and then continue the story she had been telling me. I’d start walking her to the door, signaling that it was time for her to go, but she would stay chatting at the door for another half an hour.

By the time my husband came home, the house would be a mess and dinner wouldn’t be ready because I’d spent too much time that day with Shaina. I felt like she was taking over my life.

I also felt this creeping uneasiness that our friendship wasn’t the best for my spiritual growth. Shaina spoke a lot about other people. She wasn’t mean or disparaging, but she knew a lot about everyone and liked to tell me what she knew. Was I being mekabel lashon hara when I’d listen to her tell me who in the neighborhood had gotten Botox, or who was in marriage therapy? She didn’t say it in a critical way, but it wasn’t information that the people being spoken about would probably have wanted me to know.

One night, I had a nightmare that there was a fire and I tried to get my kids out, but I couldn’t because Shaina was blocking the door. I woke up in a cold sweat. I felt like my subconscious was trying to express how trapped I felt in the relationship.

Maybe I should have been more direct. But by nature, I’m a people-pleaser. I’ve always had trouble saying no or prioritizing myself. I’m also the first to admit that enforcing boundaries is hard for me, which is probably why things got so out of hand with Shaina.

One night, my husband came home to chaos for the third night in a row. That was the breaking point. The house was a mess, the kids were running wild, and I had my raw dinner ingredients spread out all over the kitchen counter. I’d been busy with Shaina that afternoon and was in the middle of texting her back about something when he walked in. My husband and I got into a big argument, not just about prioritizing our family but also about the unhealthy dynamic that had developed between me and Shaina. I knew something had to change.

After a lot of thought, I invited Shaina over for coffee, took a deep breath, and told her straight out: “Shaina, you’re one of my best friends. I think you’re amazing. I just find that we’re spending so much time together I’m not getting anything done. The laundry’s not getting folded, dinner’s not getting cooked. I think we need to set some boundaries. I want to continue walking with you in the morning, but I think that has to be my whole Shaina time for the day.”

All the warmth went out of Shaina’s eyes. It felt like I was looking at a stranger. “That’s fine,” she said coldly. “I also have so much going on. I’ve been meaning to tell you that I won’t be able to come around much anymore. Also, I plan to give up walking in the mornings. I’ve signed up for Pilates class instead.”

I reached out and touched Shaina’s hand. “I’m not trying to break off our friendship, I’m just—”

Shaina quickly pulled her hand away. “Don’t worry,” she said, standing up and walking to the door. “I’ll see you around.”

After that, it was clear our friendship was over. Shaina didn’t reply to my follow-up text messages or phone calls. When I’d see her, she’d look away. It was painfully awkward since she lived right across the street. I felt so bad about the situation. I had clearly hurt her, and I hadn’t meant to. I tried to text her and apologize but she never responded.

I was on Central Avenue recently and I saw Shaina out shopping with a new friend. The two of them were laughing and looking at clothes.

I had to gulp down my jealousy. I’m not going to lie. Part of me wished that was me shopping with her. Part of me wished I could go back in time and take back what I said.

But I spoke to our rav about it, and he said that I did the right thing.  It wasn’t okay to neglect my husband and kids for a friend. I had to prioritize my shalom bayis.

I was sorry I hurt Shaina. I still miss many aspects of our friendship, but there is also some relief in not having to entertain her so many hours a day, and not feeling smothered by our friendship. Ultimately, as I’ve gotten older, I’m realizing that it’s important to have people in your life who respect your boundaries. Unfortunately, Shaina couldn’t do that. So I moved on, and so did she.

The Orthodox Hater

A few months after I settled into our new neighborhood, I met Sandra. She was in her seventies, walking her dog, wearing a T-shirt, and sporting a close-cropped hairdo. She looked lonely, so I struck up a conversation.

“What a cute dog!” I said to her.

“Thank you!” she replied. “His name’s Pretzel. He’s old and blind, but he’s a sweet dog.”

“He sure is,” I said, bending down to pet him.

“You’re new to the neighborhood, aren’t you?” Sandra said, looking me over. She pointed out her house — a small old house with chipped paint and aluminum siding. “I grew up right here. I’ve been here fifty years. Still living in the same house I grew up in. I was here before the neighborhood changed and the Orthodox took over.”

“Oh, right,” I said, uncomfortably. In my skirt and sheitel, I was definitely part of the “Orthodox takeover,” but maybe Sandra didn’t realize it. As I later discovered, Sandra was Jewish, but fiercely secular.

We bumped into each other again the following week. “My mother was a teacher at the local high school,” Sandra shared. “Everyone loved her. At her retirement party, all her students came and said they never had a caring teacher like her. She made such a difference in their lives.

“Wow,” I said. “She sounds like an amazing woman!”

She nodded her head. “There was no one like my parents. I miss them every day.”

“I’m sure they’re looking down and are so proud of you.”

“Let me tell you, my mother’s students still get in touch with me to tell me how much they miss my mother and how special she was to them.” Sandra sighed, and her face slowly darkened. “Then the Orthodox came and defunded the school system. It wasn’t right what they did.”

I felt defensive and compelled to speak in defense of my fellow frum Jews. “From what I heard, most of the Orthodox children were going to yeshivah, so it didn’t make sense to increase a budget six percent each year for a school that had a smaller class size each year.”

“Well, that’s another thing,” Sandra said, shaking her head. “I don’t believe in sending kids to a school where they’ll only be with their own kind. Children should be with everyone — black, white, Asian. It’s wrong to segregate yourself.”

“I hear that,” I said awkwardly. “But I think it’s more about teaching our children our values and heritage than segregating ourselves.”

Speaking to Sandra made me uncomfortable. I’d try to gently rebut her when she’d made some remark against “the Orthodox,” but she always had a retort. I didn’t want to nod and smile when she was disparaging my community, but I also didn’t want to get into a fight with an elderly woman.

Sandra was clearly lonely. She lived by herself, and had no family except one sister, from whom she was estranged. As she was retired, her whole social life seemed to consist of talking to the people she met while walking her dog. Sometimes I’d see her crying as she walked past, and when I’d ask her what was wrong, she’d just say she was remembering her parents. I felt it was a mitzvah to speak to her, but inevitably there would be a diatribe against “the Orthodox” in every conversation.

“You know the difference between my parents and the Orthodox?” she’d ask.

“What’s the difference?” I’d reply, cringing as I waited for the insult that was sure to follow.

“If my parents saw someone in need of help on Yom Kippur, they’d break their fast to help them. The Orthodox wouldn’t break their fast for anyone. Getting into Heaven is all that’s important to them.”

Sandra would sometimes talk for 20 to 30 minutes on the street, with her old dog drifting off to sleep on the sidewalk. I’d resist the urge to look at my watch, because I knew she needed someone to talk to.

One day, Sandra asked me for my number so she could text me her poetry and thoughts. Over the course of that week, she sent me hundreds of poems and thoughts. I responded to the first two, then put her on mute and forgot about it. A few days later, I saw her out walking her dog and I said hello with a smile.

She glared at me. “You didn’t respond to my texts.”

I took a step back, surprised by the venom in her tone. “I was busy with my kids.”

She shook her head and tsked. “That’s the difference between you and my parents. My parents didn’t daven. They didn’t go to shul, but they cared about everyone in their orbit. They made time for everyone who needed it.” Still looking at me with disgust, she walked away with her dog.

I felt the blood rush to my face. I had spent hours and hours of my time over the last few months speaking to her on the street. I had listened to her caustic remarks on my whole way of life, and now she was accusing me of being a religious hypocrite?

“I’ve had it with her!” I told my husband when I got home. “She’s really crazy. I’m not wasting any more time on her.”

Eventually, my anger dissipated. The incident was still eating at me, though, and I couldn’t figure out why. So I reflected on the situation. I thought about all the times I’d seen Sandra crying as she walked her dog. I remembered the story she’d told me about seeing her sister in Dunkin’ Donuts and how her sister had walked past, pretending not to see her.

I’d once heard a shiur by Rabbi Ben Tzion Shafier where he explained that if someone hurts you, they’re just the microphone — it’s really Hashem Who’s telling you something. Perhaps Sandra was telling me something that Hashem wanted me to hear? Was it possible that despite doing everything “right” in my external performance of mitzvos, I could grow more in terms of ben adam “l’chaverah”? Could I extend myself to have more patience and kindness for my challenging neighbor? Had I done as much as I could for this struggling neshamah?

The next time I saw Sandra, I greeted her with a big smile. “Would you like to come over for a Shabbos seudah sometime?” I asked. I could tell the question surprised her, especially after our last encounter, but she nodded yes.

When I went to the door that Friday night to greet Sandra, I found her standing there holding a cake she had bought from a local kosher bakery. “My mother always taught me to bring something when you go over to someone’s house. That’s the kind of person she was.”

We tried to make Sandra feel comfortable by explaining the significance of the things we were doing, like covering the challah. She listened politely and then told me how adorable my children looked in their Shabbos outfits. Over the seudah, she monopolized the conversation to the point that my husband had trouble saying  his devar Torah, but at the end of the night she thanked me profusely for having her. “I wish all Orthodox people were like you,” she said.

I still see Sandra often, whether on the street or at our Shabbos table, and she still drives me crazy with her repetitive, negative discussions of “the Orthodox,” but I know I’ll never regret extending an ear to her. I see Sandra and her challenging personality as an opportunity for me to grow — to be a kinder, more patient version of myself.  And for that, I’m grateful to her.

The Broom Lady Downstairs

MY husband and I were so happy when we found an apartment that was within our budget. In Israel, real estate is always tight, and we looked everywhere before we found what we thought would be our forever home: a three-bedroom apartment with spacious rooms and lots of light. Perfect for our growing family, as we had outgrown our two-bedroom apartment when our fourth was born.

There were a lot of children in the building around my own children’s ages, and the neighbors all seemed like us — chareidim with large families. It was within walking distance to my husband’s kollel and the school where I worked as a speech therapist. It even had a terrace with petunias growing in a pot. “It will be perfect for Succos,” I told my husband excitedly. We put in an offer, and were so happy when it was accepted that day.

Moving day came, and we settled happily into our new home. Everything seemed to be working out perfectly. My husband and I loved having more space. The children made a bunch of new friends in the building. The only issue came less than a week after we moved in, and it was such a small thing, I never imagined it would turn into the problem it became.

On Shabbos afternoon, as we were finishing up our meal and the kids were playing on the floor, we suddenly heard a loud knock on the door. It was a neighbor we hadn’t met yet — a woman in a babushka and large glasses, around my own bubbe’s age. “Keep it down,” she said, in a thick Russian accent. “My husband is napping.”

It was a reasonable request. I just wish she had asked it with a smile instead of a scowl. “Of course,” I replied. “I’ll ask the children to play a little quieter.”

She nodded, and walked away without saying thank you.

I found out later that her name was Raisa, and she and her husband lived alone in the apartment below ours. After that one request, Raisa started banging with a broom whenever my kids would play. It didn’t matter the time. If my kids were getting up in the morning, playing in the afternoon, or winding down for bed, we’d hear, bang, bang, bang.

One day, Raisa came upstairs yelling that we needed to buy a carpet. We could barely afford it, but my husband’s rav said that everyone should have a shalom fund, an amount of money allocated for keeping peace, so we purchased one. It didn’t help. Bang, bang, bang, went the broom at all hours of the day.

I never saw the woman’s husband, but she’d always say we were disturbing his sleep. Did he sleep 24/7? Because it didn’t seem to make a difference what time of the day my children played. She was always ready with the broom or to come upstairs and shout at us.

My kids lived in fear of the “wicked witch” downstairs. Because of her, I felt like my kids were being deprived of a normal childhood — playing, jumping, running around — doing the normal things that kids are supposed to do.

Moving wasn’t an option, but the broom was affecting my mental health. I know it’s an averiah to hate your fellow Jew, but I truly felt like I hated her. She was ruining our lives.

I held my tongue as long as I could, until my six-month-old Chava got sick. She had a terrible cold that turned into a double-ear infection, and I was up with her all night for a week. Chava would cry throughout the night, wailing loudly no matter how hard I tried to soothe her.

Bang, bang, bang went the broom at one a.m.

“What do they expect me to do with a sick child?” I said to my husband. “Cover her face with a pillow, chas v’shalom?”

I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept in ages. Each bang of the broom was driving me out of my mind.

“Here, take her,” I said, handing the baby to my husband.

“Where are you going?” he asked, looking at me nervously.

I ignored him. I adjusted my snood, walked downstairs, and knocked loudly on my neighbor’s door.

After a long wait, Raisa opened the door in a long pink housecoat.

“My baby’s sick. She’s in pain. What do you want me to do with her? ” I snapped. “I pray your children are always healthy and you never have to deal with a sick child and a neighbor who bangs on her ceiling day and night.”

“My husband needs to sleep. He’s a sick man. Why don’t you give the child a bottle?”

“She has an ear infection. She doesn’t want a bottle.”

“Humph,” she said. “I know something for that. I give it to you tomorrow.”

“Just please stop banging!” I begged.

When I went upstairs, a miracle had happened, and the baby had fallen asleep in my husband’s arms. We finally got some sleep.

The next day, Raisa came to the door with a concoction she had made for the baby that smelled heavily of garlic. “I show you how to make it,” Raisa told me, pushing her way into my apartment. She went over to my stove. “You crush up garlic like this,” she said, giving me a demonstration. “Now heat up garlic with oil. Let cool. You strain the garlic and pour in jar. It’s very good. Your daughter’s ear will get better.”

I thanked her, even though I planned to just continue giving Chava the antibiotics the doctor had prescribed.

A few days later, I saw Raisa in the elevator with her husband. It was the first time I had ever seen him, and I hadn’t realized he was in a wheelchair.

“Thanks so much for the medicine,” I told Raisa. “My daughter’s doing much better.”

Raisa shook a finger at me. “The old remedies are better than the new ones!”

“Yes, yes, I see that,” I agreed.

Raisa was on my mind for the rest of the day. “Her husband looks very ill,” I told my husband later.

“That’s why we always have to be dan l’chaf zechus,” he reminded me. “There’s always two sides to every story.”

I sighed. I had built Raisa up to be a monster in my mind. In truth, she was an old woman doing the best she could to take care of her sick husband with noisy neighbors above her. Was I the righteous one in the situation and Raisa the villain? Or had it been the other way around all along?

Later that day, I knocked on Raisa’s door. “I’d be happy to help you if you need anything — grocery shopping, taking your husband to doctor’s appointments, picking up your husband’s medicines.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “We’re fine, but is nice of you to offer.”

I can’t say the banging stopped, but it became less frequent, and somehow it didn’t bother me as much when I’d picture Raisa in her babushka, devotedly caring for her beloved husband.

A year later, the banging stopped  altogether. Raisa’s husband passed away, and I heard from a neighbor that she moved in with one of her children.

I never thought I’d say this, but sometimes I wish I could hear her banging one last time.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 896)