She’d never seen her macho husband cry before, but shanah rishonah was all about firsts, wasn’t it?

The couple smiled at each other, the golden hour lighting hitting them just right. The man stood, steady and sturdy, at the woman’s side. Snap snap snap. Estee clicked away, capturing the couple’s easy chemistry. A fiftieth wedding anniversary shoot was nothing to sneeze at.

At least Yonah agreed she could photograph them.

“Are you sure?” she’d said snarkily. “They are a couple, after all.”

Yonah hadn’t deemed that comment worthy of an answer, and she couldn’t blame him.

Now the photos were coming out beautiful, and even nicer was the paycheck for the shoot — they’d be using it to fund their big bein hazmanim trip. Photography was turning out to be a lucrative career. At least sometimes.

Estee stumbled into the kitchen to find Yonah at the stove, flipping pancakes.

“Um, hi?” she says, trying to compute the scene before her.

“Bein hazees!” he crows. “My turn to take care of you, Wife. Sit down.”

She smiled, bemused. She wasn’t sure she loved the idea of Yonah cooking, but she remembered the advice of the rebbetzin from the Neshei: Don’t shut down his attempts at helping.

“Wow, it smells great,” she said, smiling. “Just gonna run and daven brachos.”

If they were sitting down to breakfast together, she needed to go put herself together a bit. Plus, she really did need to daven brachos.

A few minutes later, she settled herself on the couch with her siddur when a thought popped up, unbidden: Had Yonah davened with a minyan?

None of your business, a little voice that sounded a whole lot like her kallah teacher whispered in her ear.

I don’t like you, she told the voice. Go away.

“You said something?” Yonah poked his head into the living room.

She shook her head, blushing. “Nope. Be there in a minute.”