Chapter 2

“W

elcome, welcome,” sang out Shira Mendlowitz from her kitchen as her six-year-old swung her front door open wide. I ushered the kids in, and my girls squealed and ran off to play with the Levine kids, who were already deep in a complicated doll setup. Aaron pushed the double stroller up the stairs to bookend our little caravan, and I went to the kitchen to put down my contributions and give Shira a hand with plating.

“Ooh, whadja bring?” asked Esther Levine by way of greeting.

“You know me by now,” I replied lightly. “Kid food and dessert are my go-to.” Esther’s baby interrupted the chitchat with an audible indignant cry from the den off the kitchen, and she rolled her eyes and stalked over to pluck him out of her husband’s arms. He’d been loosely holding the crying baby, and now that his hands were free, he gestured to punctuate a good-natured argument with Shira’s husband. He didn’t seem to notice his newly empty lap.

“Nechama,” Aaron called to me from the foyer. “I’m setting Shaya up in the basement with Lego. Keep an ear out for Rikki in the stroller, okay?” I popped my head out of the kitchen to give him a thumbs-up and mouth thank you, then turned back around to slide the last slices of deli roll onto the platter.

Esther laughed ruefully at my and my husband’s exchange. “The house would have to be on fire for Tuli to focus on where the kids are and what they’re doing at any given moment,” she said. Tuli, to his credit, had finished his conversation and was now rocking their daughter’s doll dutifully as she instructed him with all the three-year-old earnestness in the world, but Esther nudged Shira playfully on the arm. “You know what I mean, Shir, no?”

Shira laughs. “Are you kidding? Last week, I went to the shiur on Shabbos afternoon. How long was that, an hour? When I got back, Yitzy was out cold on the couch, and my kids were playing ‘the floor is lava’ with stuff they found in my pantry.” She looked at us, deadpan. “Bags of flour and sugar made the best stepping stones. Guess what happens when you jump from paper bag to paper bag? Yeah. Worse than you’re picturing.” Horrified at what must have been a colossal mess, I gasped — but, in, like, a trying-not-to-judge way.

Esther cackled. “That’s worse than I thought you were going to say. Did he at least help you clean up?” Shira’s expression said it all. Esther lowered her voice conspiratorially. “It’sWell, it’s not like these guys have such stellar cleanup skills, anyway. You’d probably have to redo it.” She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Hopefully, Tuli picks up some clues from watching your husband, Nechama, although I feel like after seven years, expecting sudden change is more my problem than his.” She laughed a little at that, but awkwardly.

“Oh, come on,” I said lightly, trying to shift the weird dynamic back to an even playing field. “No one’s perfect, you guys know that. Have you ever seen Aaron on a weekday? He works from his phone, which at this point is a fully attached appendage. Sometimes, if I want to tell him something, I’ll text him even when we’re in the same room. That way, I get a paper trail so I’ll know that he heard me.”

Esther and Shira laughed. I did, too, because it was funny, and also, it’s sometimes true. Truthfully, our shalom bayis is so good, it’s something I needed to focus on not taking for granted. But you can’t exactly say that in public — it’s weird and boastful and unnecessary. And we are normal. Sometimes we argue. Sometimes we get frustrated. Life is life. Isn’t that everyone?

We sat down for the meal. The men schmoozed together at the head of the table about some shul board hock, and the three of us oscillated between offering cholent bites to toddlers and trading mothering war stories and anecdotes. Shira and Esther were both really funny, and it felt like the whole discussion ended up being just one big relatable vent-a-thon about how tough it was to be a working mother with little kids. Carpool woes? Check. Cooking for picky eaters? Check. Husbands offering to “help” when that still means you’re the one responsible for everything? Big-time check.

We were all chill about it, joking around and rolling our eyes. Which was nice, because: same boat. We’re all overwhelmed people looking to share the burden.

But as Esther joked about Tuli’s crazy mother who never invited them over but was upset they never came over, my thoughts wandered to the last real argument I’d had with Aaron. We’d had his sister’s wedding two weeks before, and I’d been completely overwhelmed with the details of getting my kids, myself, and my husband outfitted to my own mother-in-law’s standards. It had ended with me freaking out about how everything was falling on me.

We got past it; Aaron’s really the best, and weddings are stressful. And it was a real-deal argument, nothing I’d bring up in public; I value our relationship too much to air our laundry for laughs. But for some reason, I kept thinking about it, mentally validating myself for having gotten upset. Obviously, I had been right to be annoyed, and if I told the story to Shira and Esther, they’d undoubtedly be on my side.

Despite that, I noticed myself glancing over to Aaron’s side of the table, hoping that he didn’t notice my little quips and digs. They weren’t referencing our argument outright, but they were definitely…. inspired by it. Aaron has a sense of humor, he’s confident in his role in our lives, and I didn’t think he’d be even a tiny bit insulted by hearing a joke made at his expense, but still.

On our walk home, I was still thinking about the conversation at the meal, turning it over in my head.

Aaron glanced at me. “Had fun?” he asked, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other swinging our five-year-old’s hand. I looked down at the double stroller I was pushing.

“Hmm?” I asked. “Oh, sure.”

Chapter 3

T

uesday was one of those days. I’d coaxed and bargained with my two picky eaters to take at least a single bite of their schnitzel (mind you, Shaya had happily eaten this exact supper last week). Rikki had refused to nap earlier, resulting in some world-class crankiness, and my arms ached from holding her as I waved a loaded fork in Esti’s disgusted direction. Six-year-old Ezra stormed into the house and slammed doors all the way to his room, shouting something about Yaakov being mean to him on the bus. He was trailed by eight-year-old Yaakov himself, who sauntered in with a smirk.

I called Aaron in the frazzled hope that he’d pick up saying he was on the way home, actually, just around the corner! Tell the kids to come wait by the window!

Instead, he sent my call to voicemail, and an automated “Sorry, I’m on the other line” text popped onto my phone a second later. Ugh, great.

The kids were fighting, the house was a wreck, and I’d already decided to skip baths in the name of sanity. I was struggling to convince overtired Rikki to lay her head down — maybe she had an ear infection? — when Yaakov peeked into her room. He held out my phone, 💕 HUBS 💕 on the screen.

“I’m with Rikki,” I whispered urgently into the mouthpiece. Aaron sounded like he was definitely still at the office on the other end, laughing and jovially repeating, “You got it, you got it,” to whoever else from Stoneland Insurance was missing their kids’ bedtime. Eventually, he turned his attention to me.

“Nechama, Schwartzman texted me, confirming that he’s coming at seven-thirty for Yaakov tonight. I’ll probably miss him — things are running late here.” He sounded distracted.

I sucked in a breath. Oh no… was it Tuesday?

Aaron had recently hired an old yeshivah friend of his, now a rebbi, to do homework with Yaakov and learn with him twice a week. Under normal circumstances, I tried to pull my house together before he came so he didn’t report back to his wife what a hot mess I was. But tonight, the main floor was littered with Lego and gedolim cards, not to mention the barely eaten vestiges of supper.

Why was Aaron working so late again? And why was he leaving me to pick up the pieces? Perfect husband, indeed, I thought darkly, remembering Esther’s quip from Shabbos. I glanced at the clock in horror: 7:28 p.m.

Rikki let out a wail as I raced out of her room to salvage whatever dignity I could in 120 seconds.

Either way, I was going to kill Aaron.

Chapter 4

OH

good, Chavi and Esther were outside. I needed a sane adult to talk to. It had been a tense week since Tuesday — I was still frustrated and stressed about what had been a mess of a learning session, and Aaron didn’t get it. Instead, he was upset that I was “making a big deal out of nothing,” which made me even more annoyed.

On my hip, Rikki was still bleary-eyed and whiny from her Shabbos afternoon nap. She clutched my sleeve as I walked over to my neighbors and settled into one of the gray antigravity chairs set in a circle on Chavi’s lawn. “Guyssss,” I said dramatically. “These endless Shabbos afternoons will be the end of me.”

Esther chuckled. She handed Rikki a piece of watermelon, and me, a napkin. “What, you don’t love a whole day without a plan?” she quipped. She half turned in her chair to glance at her two preschoolers, sitting in a dusty patch of lawn behind her. Her four-year-old pushed a tractor through the lawn, his light-blue Shabbos shorts streaked with dirt. She turned back and shrugged.

“I look at it like this,” Chavi said, smirking, “I planned a girls’ trip to Florida next month, and this is my ticket to having zero guilt about it. You think my husband feels guilty that I’m out here with the kids, breaking up fights every two seconds and worrying if Moishy ate enough for lunch or Devorah’s having too many ices?” She rolled her eyes. “I assure you, he does not. So, great! Let the kids be crazy all day. Soon, I’ll be on a beach with a cold drink in my hand, not a worry or a diaper in sight, and I’ll feel nothing but happy.”

Rikki struggled to get down from my lap. I sighed and let her toddle off to Esther’s kids. “Well, I have nothing in the forecast to distract me. You’d better have enough fun for all of us,” I said, watching Rikki’s pink romper meet the same fate as Esther’s son’s pants. I grimaced but made no move to pick her up.

“Nothing’s stopping you,” said Chavi lightly. “Say when, and we could do a neighbor vacation! Esther, you in?”

Esther laughed and shook her head. “And what, leave the kids to fend for themselves? Tuli wouldn’t last a day.”

“Same,” I said. “Aaron’s schedule doesn’t exactly leave itself room for me to go gallivanting into the sunset.” I jiggled my foot, watching Rikki out of the corner of my eye and feeling a newly familiar tendril of annoyance unfurl. Obviously, I appreciated Aaron’s work. His job paid well and he spent time learning before and after work. But reality was reality — he’d never even tried keeping the house going for more than a few hours, let alone for the full length of a vacation.

“Maybe when my kids are old enough to order takeout and put themselves to bed. Think that stage is coming up anytime soon?” I asked hopefully. There was something soothing about the way that Chavi and Esther laughed, the knowing looks that passed between us. They got it, had all the same frustrations, and this was a safe space for me to vent.

We schmoozed for a while. But despite my easy laugh, inside, I was still feeling gloomy. I noticed as Aaron slipped out of the house and turned toward shul for Minchah, lightly swinging Yaakov’s hand. He didn’t stop to wave at me. We were kind of tiptoeing around each other lately.

Well, he was tiptoeing — and giving me a hundred more reasons to roll my eyes.

Chavi noticed him, too. “Oh, no, Miri, better wake Tatty for Minchah!” she called to her daughter. “He only slept four hours this afternoon,” she grumbled under her breath, and Esther and I snickered quietly.

See, I reassured myself. It isn’t just me. Besides, I wasn’t giving any juicy details. I was just joking around, the same way as everyone else did. It was therapeutic, talking to my friends like this. It would actually improve things between Aaron and me.

But the summer went on, and things with Aaron did not improve. There were more frustrations, more irritations, and they piled onto each other until every tiny annoyance sat high enough to feel monumental. It felt like I couldn’t help but keep a mental note of all the things that were annoying me, and as the list got longer, I stewed, playing them on a loop in my head. Silences that had once felt like serenity and security now bristled with tension. I felt charged and uneasy. I found myself snapping at everyone, including the kids.

This was on Aaron, I knew. He’d been so unhelpful, so difficult. And now, it was eating away at me, and we were all suffering because of it.

Chapter 5

F

inally, I wiped down the last countertop. Turn cholent to warm!! I scribbled in dry erase marker on the magnetic whiteboard on the fridge, then grabbed the broom. Shabbos was in three hours. Wait, did Yaakov and Ezra shower yet? Ezra had tried a schtick lately where he got his hair wet but didn’t actually shampoo it, you had to hug him and give him the sniff test after to make sure you got a whiff of fresh Pantene without insulting him that he couldn’t be trusted to take a proper shower. (“I’m six, Ma, I can handle my own shower.”)

Aaron walked in, noticing the overflowing garbage bag and pulling it out. I glanced in his direction, then kept sweeping.

“Want to make early tonight?” he asked my back. I could hear him getting a fresh bag from under the sink and putting it into the can.

“Fine with me,” I said. The meal will be over in twenty minutes either way, I didn’t say. Usually the kids were so tired that a long meal meant extra fighting and crankiness — we’d begun to rush through Kiddush, challah, and chicken soup so we could get the kids to sleep.

Ezra skidded into the kitchen on his Shabbos socks, hair slick under his yarmulke. I smiled wide and dropped the dustpan to embrace him. “Look at this Erev Shabbos cutie!” I said, inhaling deeply. Phew, clean.

He wriggled out of my hug. “Ma, we’re eating home tomorrow, right?” he asked hopefully, adjusting his yarmulke and eyeing the foil pans on the counter.

“Nope!” I said brightly. “We’re going to the Cohens, how fun?”

Ezra groaned, loud and dramatic. “Not the Cooooheeens,” he said. “Michoel Cohen hates playing! He only wants to read books when I come over! Uchhhh, Ma, why can’t we ever just stay home?”

“All right, Ez,” I said briskly. “We do stay home sometimes, but we have meals with friends sometimes. And the Kleins will be there, too, we were just with them a few weeks ago and you played so nicely with Matis, remember? You’ll have a good time.”

But Ezra was too far gone. “No! You don’t even care about me! I’m not going!” He stomped out of the kitchen, and a moment later I heard his door slam.

“Great,” I muttered to myself, but I shook it off.

It felt like I was living for Shabbos these days, my social life a bright spot in the week. Plus, my friends’ husbands were Aaron’s friends, and we were both glad for the company. So Ezra was kvetching about it? All kids kvetch, nothing new about that. I glanced at Aaron, who hadn’t said a word. True, we only had two meals without company in almost three months, and while I was tired, I was just filling up my social cup, nothing wrong with that.

Chapter 6

C

havi waved me over, and I crossed the street to schmooze. It was the last day of day camp, I’d been gearing up for the two weeks off we had ahead, and the baby just went down for a nap — so probably my last moment of me time until school started. I raised the volume on the baby monitor I held and sat down.

“What’s new, Chavs?”

“Does that mean you didn’t hear?” she asked, furtively glancing up and down the street, as if she was worried that she’d be overheard. Classic Chavi, always a little dramatic. It could be anything from our garbage pickup cycle changing to someone dying; you never knew with her.

“I heard that the Mendlowitzes… might be separating,” she said, hushed. I froze in shock. Shira Mendlowitz? We’d just eaten together! What?

“I’m only saying it l’toeles. Do you think we should offer to have her kids over? I’m sure she has a lot going on,” Chavi said.

I couldn’t answer. My thoughts raced. Separated? The Mendlowitzes? They seemed so normal, their shalom bayis not any worse than anyone else’s. My mind flashed to that Shabbos conversation from a couple of months before, the joking and the eye rolls. Was that separation level? It had felt weird then, but honestly, we’d had a rough summer ourselves and now the joking and eye rolls felt familiar, if anything. I pictured Shira’s husband, dead asleep on the couch while her kids leapfrogged over torn bags of flour, and the disdain I’d felt when I’d heard about that incident. But how many stories had I shared? How many gripes, how many frustrations?

I thought about what my friends might think they knew about my husband, and who he really was. Shaken, I went inside and called Aaron, who sent my call straight to voicemail. “Of course he did,” a voice whispered in my head, but I silenced it. There was no of course anymore, as far as I was concerned. There was just Shira Mendlowitz, and me, and the kids, and Aaron, my thoughts frenetically stumbling over each other in a panic. Were we next?

That night, after superhuman effort, I had the kids in bed and the kitchen clean by eight thirty. I was determined to start fresh. The last few weeks had been stressful, sure. But the bones of our marriage were strong, weren’t they? I checked my phone again, to see if Aaron had called me back. No call, but a text: “Dinner meeting with Joe and his guys tonight, remember? Be home late. Tell kids gn.”

I called my older sister.

“Raizy, I need your honest advice,” I said, without preamble. This was not weird; she’s the best listener and we spoke often. I launched into it.

“It feels like everything is so awkward and different and he’s been getting on my last nerve like you would not believe,” I said, a touch of defensiveness there, if I was being honest. Aaron was far from perfect, I had some legitimate complaints, okay? “I just need to know if this is normal or if we’re in serious trouble,” I finished sort of lamely, running out of steam.

Raizy was quiet for a moment, through the phone, and considering I’d known her my whole life, I knew she was choosing her words. “Nechama,” she said, quietly and carefully. “I totally get it. Husbands can be irritating. But so can kids. So can everyone.” She paused again, then asked hesitantly, “What’s the deal with you? You’ve been complaining about Aaron for weeks and weeks. It’s not really your usual style. Is everything okay with you? Did something change?”

I sputtered, not liking the direction my sister was taking at all. Me? Hello — Aaron! I was not the problem.

Raizy soldiered on. “You need to discuss it with him, and you should think about talking to someone impartial who can get you out of whatever cycle you’re trapped in right now.”

I paced frenetically. Was she right? Did she think we were doomed, too? And worse: Was it really all my fault?

“Before you say no way,” she continued. “I don’t mean you guys need, like, a divorce lawyer. Maybe talk to your rav? Or commit yourself to giving a few sessions of therapy a try to see if there’s something you can fix. But either way,” she said, “forget him for a minute. I know Aaron, and unless he’s been secretly abusive all these years, he’s one of the more hands-on husbands I can think of.”

I thought about this, trying not to let my annoyance well up inside me.

“I think you’re going to be fine,” Raizy finished. “But you have got to figure out whatever it is getting you so stressed lately.”

I heard the lock engage, and I hung up hurriedly. I glanced at the clock. After 9 p.m., and Aaron was just walking in. I knew he had a client dinner, but it still felt personal. He never used to work so late.

“Well, listen, you know Klein, he likes to take risks, but not when it comes to his own portfolio.” Aaron paused to listen as he set down his keys and shrugged off his jacket. He was obviously on a work call, his voice warm and accommodating and fun and serious all at the same time. Fake, sure, but a part of me still panged with sadness. The voice reserved for me these days had none of those tones. And maybe it was all my doing.

“Oh, sure, I’m not going to keep you,” Aaron continued. “But last thing — I happen to have a gift card to Coal & Cleaver with your name on it. I’m emailing it to you now.” He paused again, then chuckled. “That’s good timing! Happy anniversary, hope you and the veib enjoy.”

He disconnected the call, then looked up and noticed me watching him. His smile dimmed a little. “Hey,” he said, a little apprehensively.

I burst into tears.

To his credit, Aaron didn’t retreat, even after weeks of both of us avoiding what was happening in our home. He sat down next to me on the couch, and sighed, giving me a minute until I could get the words out, but they wouldn’t come. He took pity on me.

“Nechama,” he said quietly. “Tell me what’s been going on lately.”

Chapter 7

IT

took many long, trying months for us to get back to where we’d been before.

I did give therapy a try, and forced myself to face a lot of uncomfortable truths. I’m easily influenced, as it turns out, and I was allowing the lighthearted but continuous negative joking that was going on around me to be normalized. Once it was normal, it began to penetrate.

I realized how much of the summer’s spiral had been of my own making, and I was determined to undo it. I focused on my own cues and realized that the things that were annoying me were normal everyday moments I was allowing to stress me out. I started taking a walk with the baby while the kids were out. I went cliché and booked a babysitter and scheduled a date night, then another one. I worked hard to thank Aaron for the little things he’d always done, like taking out the garbage and clearing his plate from breakfast. I acknowledged to myself and to my husband that I wasn’t above being swept away into a tide of snarky negativity. I realized that instead of fighting my nature, I could try to let positivity influence me, and that was also my choice.

The day of my fourth therapy appointment, I was a mess. I’d spent 45 minutes considering some difficult things about myself, and I was upset. That afternoon, my phone buzzed, an invitation from Chavi for Shabbos lunch. “We’re taking a break from meals out,” I wrote back impulsively. She responded with a thumbs-up.

Later that night, Aaron returned from Maariv with a sort of grim resolution on his face. He found me in the kitchen, packing snacks into backpacks for the next day.

“Did you turn a Steiner Shabbos meal down?” he asked mildly.

I nodded.

“Chavi texted me before and I just… needed a break.”

He broke open a pack of Sesame Street juice boxes and passed me one.

“Besides, Esti asked me if we’re having company this week, and when I said no, she literally cartwheeled in joy,” I said ruefully. “Why, Steiner mentioned it?”

Aaron nodded. “Yeah, you know the guys, everything is a joke with them. He and Schonbrenner were giving me a whole song and dance how we think we’re too good for them. It’s fine, let them get it out of their systems. They’re just mad they won’t have your cooking for a while.” He grinned, then shrugged. “You know our neighbors. They talk.”

Boy, did I know.

That Shabbos afternoon, the circle was empty. I settled Rikki on my lap on one of our lawn chairs and checked my watch; 2:40 p.m. Our meal was long over; the boys were on the trampoline and Esti had knocked on the Kleins’ door looking for her friend Brochie, but they weren’t home. “I’m soooo boooored,” she whined, dragging it out as if the slower she said the words the faster time would pass.

I nodded at the empty circle of chairs across the street. “Did you knock on Miri Steiner’s door? Maybe Brochie is there.”

Esti brightened momentarily then crossed the empty street and knocked. One of the boys answered, then turned and yelled for his sister. A moment later, Esti returned, brows drawn and arms crossed in classic Esti dramatic fashion. Cute, when I remembered she was only five. Not cute, when I knew it would take her ages to snap out of a bad mood.

“They started a game together already,” she huffed. “And they don’t let me play with them. It’s not fair!”

They must have eaten lunch together, I realized. Esti would have been included if I’d have said yes to Chavi.

I straightened up. “We have fun games here, Est. Go inside, Shaya and Tatty are playing, they always want you to play with them.”

She didn’t take the bait.

After promises of a better-than-usual Shabbos party, Esti agreed to walk to the park, and she glared at the Steiners’ house as I strapped Rikki in to go. The circle of chairs was still empty when we got back, but snippets of happy conversation and my neighbors’ voices filtered out the open window into the street.

We went back inside.

Chapter 8

IT

took time, but slowly, I noticed a change. We were holding deep into Cheshvan when I suddenly realized that the kids had started taking their parshah sheets out again; there was a meal where we could read them, instead of the kids being free to play while adults socialized. We sang zemiros. We reconnected.

Even on Shabbos afternoons, it began to feel too uncomfortable for me to spend so much time with my neighbors. I was seeing them less anyway, but when we were together I was hypersensitive to their favorite topic: negativity about my husband and kids. The colder weather helped; we stayed inside a little more, and I made an effort to spend more time with friends a few blocks away who were by nature more positive.

We’re still neighbors, I’m always thrilled to lend a dozen eggs, or watch their kids when they need to run an errand. None of that had to change. It was just that my marriage was no longer fodder for entertaining my friends. It was sacred, and special, and it was mine to protect or to lose.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 963)