“Yes,” she said aloud, standing behind her son’s chair and placing a warning hand on Yonah’s shoulder. “The doctor did say she should rest.”

Her mechuteneste smiled at her tightly. “Oh, she will. Just back in Lakewood, with her regular doctor, where we can all keep an eye on her.”

Well, that stung. Not only had she driven Estee to the hospital, she’d also spent the past six hours “keeping an eye on her.”

And it occurred to Golda, for the very first time, that Tamar Lefkowitz’s relationship with her eldest daughter was anything but healthy. Which actually explained a lot….

She glanced down; Yonah’s hands were clenching the arms of his chair so hard that veins had popped out all along his forearms. It seemed that this wasn’t a onetime incident.

“Estee, come.” The tone was commanding.

And after that, there wasn’t much to do except help Tamar with the discharge process. She gestured to Estee’s mother to follow her, knowing that whatever was about to go down in the semi-private hospital room between her son and his wife was private and probably not very pleasant.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean? I’m going to go back to Lakewood with my mother so I can see Dr. Farber.” The IV bag was just about finished, and she felt much stronger.

Yonah’s lip curled; she’d never seen him look so cold before. “Are you? You are going back to Lakewood. Did you forget something? Maybe a husband? Since when do we make decisions alone?”

She could not believe he was going to make this hard for her. Here she was, hospitalized, with an IV line, overwhelmed, and he was getting nitpicky about which words she’d used.

“Yonah… my mother drove all the way from Lakewood. I need to go with her. Stop making this hard. And you’ll come soon, okay? Just if you can pack us up? My sheitels and all that…”

“What about Simchas Torah with my family?” he said harshly. “What about the goodbye kiddush the shul is making to honor my parents who have lived here for decades? What about our plans?”

She lifted an arm so he could see the needle inserted. “Oh, this was definitely not in my plans. Plans change, Yonah. Be mature. Please.”

She left. His wife. She’d just upped and left. With her mother.

He was frozen. He didn’t think he’d ever have enough energy to stand, let alone leave this hospital room.

She’d left.

But he was staying.

“You need to go.”

He blinked. His mother’s face hovered in front of him, her forehead creased in worry.

“Yonah? Yonah! You need to follow her. Let’s go. We’re going back to the house, you’re going to shower, drink a coffee, and I’m going to pack up your and Estee’s things. And then you’re driving to Lakewood. Stand up. Yonah!”

He stood up, out of kibbud av v’eim. “I’m not going, Ma. She left. We’re married. Where you go, I go. And she just left, knowing how much I want to be here now, for this one last Simchas Torah in the shul I grew up in. and the goodbye kiddush and everything. Does she just totally not care about me?”

His mother cupped his chin in her hand, like she had when he was small. Now, she had to reach upward.

“I know, sweetie. I wanted you there, too. Really, truly. But life doesn’t always take us where we want it to. And your place is always at your wife’s side. So now you need to follow her back to Lakewood. Okay? Let’s go.”

He wasn’t sure how she did it, but one hour later, he found himself in his car, fortified with snacks and drinks, the suitcases neatly packed in the trunk, and a hot coffee in the cup holder.

He rolled down the window. His mother gave him a smile, but in the light of the streetlamp he noticed the tears sparkling in her eyes.

“I’m proud of you, sweetie. I’m davening for you. Everything should go so well. Please, please, call me when you get there.”

He raised one hand, blew her a kiss, and then sped off into the night.

How, he wondered, as he pulled onto the freeway, had it all gone so wrong?

And why, he asked aloud — maybe to Hashem? He wasn’t sure — just why? Why did it all have to be so hard? Why did getting married, creating a life alongside someone else, need to be this complicated? Couldn’t it just be simple? Man, woman, home?

He banged on the steering wheel. What was he doing? Driving after a girl who’d clearly made her choice: her mother and her comfortable life in her childhood home. He was an idiot.

And that’s when he saw the wedding photo his mother had placed on the passenger seat, the one Estee usually sat on.

The frame was sooo Estee, all acrylic and boxy, with faint speckles inside. He glanced at it again, then kept his eyes on the road.

Well played, Ma. He would do anything for the girl in that photo. He just had to remember that she was the same person who had meekly followed her mother out of a hospital room, leaving her husband alone in a different state.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1037)