“Why’d you take those pictures?” she asked, curiously. A few months ago, while Tzvi was taking his course, there were homework assignments. He’d photographed everything back then: a dirty sneaker, three apples in a bowl, a precarious pile of dishes in the sink. (She’d made him delete that one.)

Then there were the endless trips to the park with the kids, pictures in the swings, on the seesaw. Bribing them with ice cream bars to pose, again, and of course, the pictures with chocolate smudging their mouths, ice cream dripping onto their clothes.

The pictures were sweet, and more importantly, he’d kept the kids busy every Sunday for the entire eight weeks of the course.

But Tzvi had graduated from Star Shoot Photography Intensive before Pesach. They’re done with the outlandish homework assignments (Take a series of pictures that capture energy in its raw form, however you define the word); finished with Sunday nights scrambling at the computer to send files over for feedback.

He’s a professional photographer now — his certificate is hanging crookedly beside her work desk to prove it. He’d need a space of his own at some point, maybe when he would be established enough to actually make a profit. For now, they’re still paying the costs of the course and equipment.

“So I had this idea,” Tzvi was saying earnestly. “Because you need to get out there, you know? And the hotel’s advertising and marketing, they’re not great, we saw what they have up on their site. So I took a few pictures of the food, I have a nice one of the lobby, the bedrooms… I was thinking that later on, when it’s calmer, I’ll have a chat with the manager, see if they’re looking to hire a photographer for anything.”

She suddenly feels nauseous again.

“But… what if they’re not looking for one right now? Maybe they’re happy with their pictures.”

He doesn’t seem to hear her. “Look at this one,” he says, tilting the camera screen in her direction. “You like? It’s in the lobby, downstairs. And this here shows the view from the dining room windows.”

“They’re — they’re great,” she says, but what she doesn’t say is, they’re nothing special. She could’ve taken those pictures on her phone. They don’t scream skilled photographer. She notices a shadow across one picture and bites her lip.

“Thanks. I hope they think so, too… I’d offer them a deal if they want to redo the pictures for their website or something. It would be worthwhile for me, you know, to break into the field…”

Oh, boy, does she know. She manages a smile. “Wow, good luck with that.”

He takes the camera back, holds it a moment too long. “You think they’ll take me?” he asks.

His expression is so tentative, so hopeful. Something pinches at her heart.

“If they don’t, it’ll be their loss,” she says.

“You know,” Tzvi says conversationally, “you should really take a break.”

“Hmm?” Bina consults her phone, jotting the week’s deadlines down in her planner. She knows pen and paper are archaic, but she likes seeing things in black and white.

“A break. You know, as in doing nothing for a few minutes?” He peers over her shoulder. “I know you have to put it in your planner to make it happen. Maybe pencil it in for… Monday?”

“Ha, ha.” Bina runs a finger across Monday morning: deadline for Bramsky project, send proposal to lighting company, Zoom meeting with a client at 12. No chance. She has so much to do. She always has so much to do. Motzaei Shabbos used to be her night off, but she hadn’t actually taken off in… well, a long while.

It’s a brachah, really, that her freelance business has taken off, and her work calendar is maxed out. But it’s irritating when he talks about taking breaks and relaxing. Sure, he has plenty of time to relax between occasional photoshoots. But someone has to bring money in, and it looks like it’s all on her.

Tzvi sweeps the calendar and phone to one side. “Seriously, you’re too busy. Want bagels for Melavah Malkah?”

She hasn’t had much of an appetite, but suddenly her mouth is watering. “Ooooh. Yeah. Thanks.”

While he bustles from freezer to toaster, she rests her head in her hands and thinks about the baby. It would be nice to take some time off from her clients. She’d been dreaming of her email auto-response: Thanks for reaching out! I’m currently on maternity leave, and will be back in the office in May. But who is she kidding? Unless Tzvi’s clientele has a major growth spurt, she’ll be back to work practically as soon as she’s discharged from the hospital.

Tzvi is patchke’ing with some vegetable platter. She checks her phone: one new text, from Hertz, Nechama.

Hi Bina. Just checking in that we’ll be ready for the launch on Thursday as planned.

Hertz! She’d completely forgotten that one.

She scans her calendar. Wednesday, oh no, she has an ultrasound. But she’d need to spend the entire day on the Hertz project, if not most of the night, too. Too many deadlines, too little time… can she reschedule the appointment?

Absolutely, she texts back. Then she tosses down the phone and massages her temples hard.

“So, how about taking some time off this week, to go out together?” Tzvi presses. “And don’t tell me we just went on vacation. Some vacation that was.” He snorts comically. “You just worked full-time in a different office, that was all.”

She wants to tell him that this week is too busy, maybe next, but then she remembers that next week will bring its own set of deadlines, and the procrastinated ultrasound, and doesn’t one of the kids have some siyum or siddur party? Plus, she desperately needs to take Sari for shoes already.

“Bina?”

Her phone buzzes. She scans the incoming text.

Hi, this is Rabbi Weinbaum, about Yitzi’s kriyah. Please call me ASAP.

Rabbi Weinbaum… he’d called last week. Maybe the week before, too?

“I can’t,” she says. “I just can’t.”

Tzvi picks up the phone. “Rabbi Weinbaum? Is that…?”

Bina’s head spins. Hertz, Weinbaum, cancel appointment, projects, lists, a million to-dos and her husband reading the text slowly, a smudge of cream cheese on his finger. And just like that, her appetite disappears again.

“I think I need to niche.”

Tzvi leans his elbow onto her computer desk, thinking aloud as she fiddles with the back-end of his website. She’s trying to fix a glitch in the booking system, and wishes he’d give her space.

“It seems like everyone has some sort of niche, product photography, newborn pictures, outdoor family shoots…” Tzvi gets up to pace, leaving the website to her. Finally. “It feels counterintuitive though, I want more opportunities, not less… though they say it works. You become an expert in that niche, people trust you more…”

She lets him talk as she saves her changes.

Tzvi goes quiet. When she glances up, he’s looking at her expectantly.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, sure,” she says quickly. “Niching, right. It’s hard.”

He frowns a little. “So do you?”

She blinks. “Do I — oh, right. I mean, kind of, I work with small businesses, mostly e-commerce sites. But I can do other ones too.” She gestures at her computer, Tzvi’s homepage filling the screen, sleek, bold, impressive. “Like this service-based biz right here.”

He nods, and resumes pacing.

“Maybe you just need some more time, to take on different jobs and see what speaks to you most,” she offers.

“For sure,” Tzvi says, frustration creeping into his tone. “But that’s the whole problem. I’m not getting jobs. I need more exposure.”

Bina’s heart clenches. She switches tabs, furtively checks her emails. Four new emails. One was from Bramsky, two e-blasts, and the last was from someone called Richard Davies. New client?

She almost clicks on it, intrigued, then remembers Tzvi, waiting for her answer. “I hear you,” she says. “I really do.”

Tzvi watches her a moment, a funny look in his eye. Then he sits again and reaches for the mouse. “Can I see the website again?”

She blinks.

They scroll through the pages. Tzvi Marks Photography ™. He thought the TM was adorable, she thought it looked too pretentious and no one cared about initials these days.

Then there was the home page text; he’d gone all out, hired a professional copywriter, paid a pretty penny for pretty words, but… he’s not as good as he sounds on the page. He has no idea. He loves sending people the link to his website. As if it makes his job more real. As if it makes him a success.

Whatever. At least he didn’t pay for the web development. A wife in the field comes in handy.

“I was just thinking,” he says suddenly. “Your job. It’s perfect, you know.”

She startles. If he could read her mind these days, it wasn’t great news. “Because I made your website?”

“Oh, that too, but I meant because of your clientele.” Tzvi rolls the mouse aimlessly between Our Promise and Our Services. She hates the “our.” He should own his brand, not hide behind a non-existent team. “You know, the e-commerce people.”

She’s suddenly aware of his tone, too bland, too careful. “What about them?”

He clicks at random. The screen flashes onto a large picture of a petal-strewn carpet, white canopy floating dreamily at the horizon line. YOUR ONE-OF-A-KIND SIMCHAH, OUR ONE-OF-A-KIND SERVICE. LET TZVI MARKS CAPTURE THE NIGHT OF YOUR DREAMS, FOR THE MEMORIES OF A LIFETIME.

“So, they probably all need, you know, product photographers,” he says. “Wouldn’t it be great if we could kind of make a joint offer — you’ll do the site, I’ll do the photography? Maybe at a discounted rate or something, I’m happy to do it to build up a portfolio…”

No. No. No. No.

Just. No.

“They — most of my clients have their own photographer, or they have pictures on file already,” she blurts, the first thing that comes to mind.

“But sometimes they don’t,” Tzvi says. “Don’t you have start-ups coming on board? I’ve heard you on those meetings, telling them exactly who they’ll need to hire — the copywriter, the photographer… and then they ask you for recommendations.”

She can’t deny it. “Yes,” she says heavily. “They do. Sometimes.”

“So, if they do… you’ll tell them…?” he pushes. Something gnaws at her. He knows. He knows you’re not sure, you don’t believe in him.

She looks away. “Sure, of course,” she says lightly. The words taste hypocritical on her tongue.

Davies, it turns out, isn’t just a new client. He’s the biggest one she’s ever had.

Meeting w/ branding team, schedule, she scribbles, as he pontificates down the phone. Executive secretary — Melissa. RD will email.

She glances at the time on her computer screen. What? How has it already been almost two hours?

“Can you hold a moment?” she asks, when he pauses for breath. “I’ll be right back.”

In the kitchen, Tzvi is absentmindedly stirring a pot of spaghetti. His phone is in his right hand, and he’s scrolling up and down as if rereading the same message over and over.

“Meeting’s taking forever,” she informs him. “Will you take care of things till I’m done?”

“Sure,” Tzvi says. He sounded distracted. “Big client?”

“Yup,” she confirms.

He looks like he wants to say something, but changes his mind. Just as she reaches the doorway, he blurts out, “I just got a message from someone… recommending me for a big project, too. I sent some samples over and it sounds like the client liked them… I’m waiting to hear back.”

“Oh, wow, good luck,” Bina says. Her voice is too hearty.

“Yeah. I mean, they said they’ll let me know soon…”

She murmurs something that she hopes sounds encouraging, and beats a hasty retreat. Davies is waiting on hold; she can’t afford to stop for a long conversation.

Terms. Project timeline. More names, more dates, minutes of the meeting…

“And, of course, we’ll be looking to hire some other talented individuals to work alongside you,” Davies concluded. “I’ve been negotiating with an excellent copywriter, and then we’ll need the photography and videography, of course. Do you have any names to recommend, from your connections in the industry?”

So if they do ask you for recommendations, Tzvi’s voice whispers in her ear. You’ll tell them…?

No.

She can’t do this.

She can’t say his name. She can’t. He’s so… new. Unpolished. In the back of her mind, she dares to think: unprofessional. He’ll make her look bad. And like, nerdy, recommending her husband who is brand new in the industry.

She can’t risk her reputation on this. She can’t lose this client.

Bina glances at the door. It’s tightly closed.

“I’ll — email you a few names,” she says quickly.

She thinks for a moment. Videographer is easy, Akiva Videography, she types, adding a link to the website and Akiva Weissman’s contact information. She’s collaborated with him on websites before. Davies will be pleased.

Photographer. She’s at a roadblock. To refer him? Not to refer him?

Sheva Jacobowitz, she types. Sheva’s great, professional, experienced. And a second option…

Jake Reiss.

She hits backspace. Tzvi Mar —

What is she doing? How ridiculous will she look, recommending her own husband, a total newbie? What if he doesn’t hire him? What if he does?

She presses delete.

Jake Reiss, she types, forcing her mind shut. jakereissphotography.com. Highly recommend!

And she hits send.

He wouldn’t have taken Tzvi anyway, she tells herself, guilt coursing through her bloodstream. He wouldn’t have taken someone so new, with so little to show on his portfolio.

So what? I should have given him the chance. I could have made it casual, oh, actually, my husband is in the field — here’s the link to his website.

It wouldn’t have been casual; it would’ve been totally unprofessional. You couldn’t have done anything differently.

But she could have, and yet she’s relieved she didn’t, and the sound of the kids fighting is a welcome distraction from the arguing in her brain.

Tzvi is sitting at the table, his face downcast. For a moment, she’s annoyed — can’t he hear the kids fighting, why’s he just sitting there — and then he glances up and says, “They cancelled in the end.”

“Who — oh, that big client,” she half-asks, half-says. Inside her chest, the guilt swells. She swallows. “That’s a shame, Tzvi. I’m sorry.”

He pushes his chair back. “It’s okay. It’s just hishtadlus, right? There’ll be other opportunities…”

Bina stares at his empty place at the table for another moment, then remembers the kids. She pauses at the foot of the stairs, trying to summon some energy, and then heads upstairs.

By the time she’s finished baths, bedtimes, and refereeing argument number 3,085,671, her back is aching and she makes the mistake of collapsing onto the couch. An hour later, she rubs her eyes and tries to stretch. Her legs are cramping uncomfortably.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Where’s Tzvi?

“Tzvi?” she calls softly. “You home?”

A moment later she hears his key.

“I’m in here,” she says. He passes by and waves a brief, wordless greeting. Something in his face looks… strange.

Bina follows him to the kitchen, fatigue forgotten. He’s standing by the refrigerator, an impenetrable barrier between them.

“Tzvi? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles.

Her heart jumps a little. He’s always so unflaggingly cheerful.

“Please, Tzvi, you’re making me worried. What is it?”

Tzvi is too nice to let her worry. He closes the refrigerator door and rips off the foil of a yogurt. “I spoke to Lebowics in shul. He’s the one who recommended me to this new client. It’s his uncle, Richie Davies. Real big name, wealthy guy, got a dozen businesses in his name. But you know that already.”

There’s a sudden boom-boom-boom in her ears.

“He felt really bad that it fell through,” Tzvi continued, looking past her at a random spot on the kitchen wall. “He said they really liked my work, but they had another recommendation from the web developer.” He cleared his throat. “So they decided to hire him instead. Jake Reiss.”

He gulps down the yogurt in a few quick spoonfuls, tossing the empty container in the garbage can before she can even formulate a response.

“Oh — and good luck with the website,” he says. Then he leaves the room.

For two days they talk without talking — hello, goodbye, how-were-the-kids, I-picked-up-the-dry-cleaning, thanks — until Bina can’t stand it anymore. She powers down the computer and goes to find Tzvi.

“About the referral,” she says. “For Davies. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t bashert.”

Right, like that could make it all better when she’s the one who betrayed him.

“Maybe, but I could have done it differently.” She swallows. “I just — he asked particularly about experience, I felt that…”

“Whatever. Forget it,” Tzvi says, cutting her off. He never does that.

She’s quiet. Anything she says will just make things worse.

Back at her desk, she sees that Davies has emailed again: Another string of questions, instructions, contacts, changes of plans, and meetings he wants to schedule in. She sighs. This is a lot more all-encompassing that it had seemed at the outset. Of course, she’ll be able to bill more for it, and they could use the money. But was that enough to justify all the work?

What about her time, peace of mind, commitment to her other clients, the kids.

She brings it up with Tzvi later, carefully avoiding the name of the big client she’s talking about. He listens carefully, and she realizes with a jolt that it’s been so long since she’s actually asked her husband for his advice.

Tzvi furrows his brow, considering the options, and suddenly he isn’t the newbie photographer struggling to find a job, but simply her husband, her advisor, and something in Bina’s gut says, this is the way it should be.

“Let me think about it, okay?” he says finally, and she nods, turns back to her computer screen, and wonders why she feels so sad.

Sunday morning she’s still half-asleep when she thinks she sees something — or someone — creeping out of the bedroom door.

Bina rummages for her phone. It’s just past five a.m.

Five a.m.? She sits bolt upright. Tzvi’s bed is empty.

“Tzvi?” She throws off her blankets. What’s he doing up so early?

She finds him downstairs, sipping coffee.

“Oh — Bina! I woke you?”

“It’s fine. Are you going somewhere?”

He looks so self-conscious, she half-wishes she would have just gone back to sleep and let him have his privacy. But what is he doing now, anyway? Her eyes fall on the camera case on the kitchen table.

“You’re… taking pictures?” Confusion blooms in her mind. “Now? Where?”

Tzvi gives a slight cough. “No. I mean, yes, but not professionally. Just… you know, for fun.” He seems encouraged by her silence. “I used to enjoy photography so much, I want to keep it that way, not just a stress, you know? And the park is so beautiful at this hour… I’ll daven neitz and head off to catch sunrise.”

The softness in his expression tugs at her.

“Can I come?” she finds herself asking.

She sees happiness on his face, tempered by caution. “You want to?”

She nods. “I’ll get ready while you go daven. I’ll leave Chaya a note. We’ll be back before the kids wake up?”

“I hope so,” he chuckles.

Bina pads back upstairs, leaves a message on the guest room door. Her sister’s been sleeping over on weekends for the past few weeks, ever since she started her ninth month.

They’re quiet in the car, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. When they park the car and step out into the sharp, fresh morning air, Bina feels the closest thing to peace that she’s felt in a long while.

Gravel crunches under her feet, giving way to grassy banks as they head for the lake. Bina sinks onto a bench with a sigh of relief.

“We should do this more often,” she says.

Tzvi sets up his equipment with practiced ease. He checks the light, takes an experimental picture or two, then adjusts the settings. He takes two giant steps back, focuses intently, and takes a series of pictures: Click. Click. Click-click-click.

“Gotcha!” He smiles, holding out the screen to show her. He’s captured the water, trees, dark sky gradually softening towards the horizon, and the first rays of sunlight sparking off the water. The picture is beautiful, there’s light in his eyes, and suddenly, Bina feels tears catching in her throat.

“You really love this,” she says, realizing the words as she speaks them. “Photography. It’s… a passion for you. Not just a job.” There’s a twinge in her heart. She remembers the days when she loved web design, the psychology of it, the beauty of it. Before she became a tough businesswoman, churning out site after site, and so, so tired.

He lowers the camera. “Sure, I do. That’s why I chose the field.”

They sit together in silence for a few moments. Bina feels vaguely like she should say something, try to wrap up what’s going on between them, but the words seem too big for the moment, or maybe the moment is too big for words.

Pink clouds ribbon across the sky. A rim of gold appears on the horizon. Tzvi lifts his camera, fiddles a moment, snaps. And she sees him suddenly, all of him, Tzvi, her husband, father of her children, her best friend.

“We’re so much more than what we do with our days,” she says suddenly. “Our marriage — it’s so much bigger than that.”

She feels like the words aren’t very coherent, but he understands.

“About your job… this client,” Tzvi says. “I was thinking. It sounds like it’s really too much.” He’s also tiptoeing around the name, she realizes, and she feels a frisson of shame. “I’d say to either cut it back to the original project size, just create his website, whatever, get him to hire project managers and marketers for the rest of the work he keeps sending — or apologize to him and refer him on. No amount of money is worth your peace of mind.”

She blinks. Let go of a lucrative job offer? It’s not her. And yet…

“Out here, you get a new perspective,” he says. “You start to realize what’s most important. Think of the hours you’re putting in. The stress. The baby, b’ezras Hashem.

It’s strange, the relief she feels. Had she really wanted to turn this down, all along?

“It’s like I never realized it was an option to say no,” she says. “This is the natural progression of my work. It should be the highlight of my career. I’m supposed to jump at the opportunity.”

“But who does the supposing?” Tzvi asks. “Isn’t it about what works for us?”

And suddenly, it all comes together in her mind: It’s just a job. It’s just a channel.

It’s not who we are, what we are. Web design isn’t my identity.

And photography… it’s not who Tzvi is, either.

“I need to learn from you,” she says. “From your passion in your work, the joy.”

And he can learn professionalism, and business acumen, and pick up experience and confidence, and he will, but right now it doesn’t matter; their marriage is so much more than the sum of their careers.

“Hey,” she says slowly. “If I’m cutting back… I’ll have time for something I’ve been wanting to do for a while.”

He looks at her, a question in his eyes.

“I’ve been wanting to revamp my website for a while,” Bina says, and her heart expands with the wholeness of what she’s about to say. “Will you do the photography for me?”

Tzvi looks up sharply, and then slowly, he smiles. “I’ll give you the friends and family discount.”

And they stand there, framed by early morning light, the moment captured like the most exquisite photograph.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 775)