The drive was pleasant. They stopped for egg sandwiches on the Garden State Parkway, and then again to stretch their cramped legs just a half hour from Lakewood.

“Remember when we drove from Monsey to Baltimore for Yocheved Kaufman’s wedding, and you were so proud over how you didn’t stop once?” Golda said ruefully, adjusting her sunglasses and walking back and forth in an effort to ease the cramps from her leg. She watched as Dovid placed both hands on the car and tried to stretch the crick out of his neck.

He laughed. “Yup. you married a showoff.”

Golda laughed. “Oh, I know.”

They smiled at each other and got back in the car.

“Homestretchhhhhh!” Dovid said in his announcer’s voice.

The kids used to make so much fun of that voice. They called it his running dad joke.

Golda loved it. It was amazing to watch the boy you married turn into a man you built a life with. And she wouldn’t have changed a thing. Well, up until she decided to change nearly everything. Just not the things that mattered most.

The house was perfect. 

“It’s tiny,” Dovid said.

She saw him looking up at the ceiling. In Boston, they had a swooping ceiling with dark wooden beams. Here, the ceiling was of regular height and very white.

She loved it.

She found herself running her fingers along everything; the smooth marble countertops, the silent cabinets, the cold, brass-colored faucets. White and brass, what a beautiful combination for a kitchen.

Dovid looked around. “Where’s the kitchen?”

Was it the heat? Sunstroke?

“This is the kitchen,” she said, arching an eyebrow.

He looked mulish. “Oh. I thought this was like a Pesach kitchenette.”

She knew he was thinking of their kitchen back in Boston, with its butcher block island, all nicked from years of chopping vegetables directly on the wooden surface, its round dinner table, wide enough to comfortably seat nine, like the Knights of King Arthur, and the separate fleishig and milchig sinks and dishwashers.

“We’re downsizing,” she reminded him. “We’re old, remember?”

“Speak for yourself,” he grumbled, shuffling out of the room.

She found him in the office. Some interior designer had staged it with a computer, a camel-colored leather swivel chair, and shelving from floor to ceiling.

Was he thinking of his built-in bookshelves at home? She bit her lip.

“This is nice,” he said.

She knew he was trying, and she appreciated it.

Estee rearranged the buns for the third time. First, she’d piled them in a sort of tower, then switched them to a wicker basket, and now she decided to place a shoe box under the red-checked tablecloth and have the buns spilling downward.

She knew she was being ridiculous — neither her in-laws nor Aunt Breiny and Uncle Morry cared about table decor. In fact, they probably wouldn’t even notice it.

But she cared.

Plus, if it looked really good, she could take some shots for her website.

It was time to start putting the food out; the guests would show up soon. She poured the potato salad out of her mother’s red plastic bowl — the thing must be older than she was — into the wooden boats she’d ordered on Amazon Prime, and sprinkled parsley on top, like Ma had instructed. The grilled vegetables were already arranged in a rainbow half circle, and the hot dogs and hamburgers were sizzling away on the little grill out back — they were lucky to have nice landlords who had given them permission to use the yard.

Yonah came in, a can of Coke in his hands, a ridiculous white chef’s hat set at a jaunty angle. His own Amazon Prime purchase.

“Wife, I have cooked the meats,” he said, giving a little bow that made his hat fall off.

Estee giggled. “What a brave man you are. Did you wear that hat while you were hunting for our dinner?”

Yonah stuffed it back on. “You know it. Yum, when did you make… potato salad…” his voice trailed off, as he peered at the boat of potato salad and then at the glaringly red bowl next to it.

“Is that your mother’s potato salad? Didn’t we say we’ll try to involve her less in our day to day?”

He looked at Estee, his face hard.

Why did he do that? Why did he insist on ruining perfectly good moods with petty arguments? Can’t he just hold in his criticism ’til after the party? The party they were throwing for his parents and aunt and uncle?

She didn’t answer, just turned away and poured the ketchup into little bowls in silence. Yonah spun on his heel and went to flip the burgers.

It was going to be a great party.

IT was actually really nice. Estee wondered if it was strange how much she enjoyed her mother in-law’s company. Golda was a warm, pleasant person.

“Ma, this house sounds incredible,” Estee said, passing her mother-in-law a cup of lemonade.

Her mother-in-law sighed happily. “It really is. Everything is so new.”

Estee bit her lip as her father-in-law’s voice carried in from the patio. “… so new! Absolutely no character at all.”

“Wow, and it’s only 15 minutes from here?” she said loudly.

Her mother-in-law grinned. “I hear him, don’t worry. He’ll come around.”

Estee was suddenly overcome with the desire to grab her mother-in-law’s hand and say, “But how?! How do you know he’ll come around? How do you get there, to that point where his grumpiness doesn’t eat away at you?”

But she didn’t, because, you know, she was normal.

Later, after warm brownies and homemade ice cream, she made her way around, collecting garbage in a plastic bag. Yonah should be helping her. Where was he?

She looked around; he was bent over something on the patio with Uncle Morry and his father.

She squinted through the open door and then she saw the Gemara. Voice raised, Yonah was gesticulating wildly, his hands slicing the air.

His father hollered something, Yonah shook his head, Uncle Morry placed a hand on his shoulder, he shook it off. And Estee felt a huge smile break across her face, and mortifyingly, tears sprang to her eyes.

There he was. The fiery, passionate Torah learner she’d married.

She’d really missed him.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1026)