This was why she’d moved to Lakewood, right?
Ariella and Mordy both worked so hard, and Ruthie’s being able to be that grandmother — give me the baby for the day, it’s so beautiful out, just get out there and enjoy — made her feel solid, consequential.
With Sari banging on upside-down pans, Ruthie had finally unpacked the last of the boxes, emptying her Pesach keilim in the freshly painted extra closet downstairs. Then she’d taken Sari to the playground, feeling very much the young grandmother as she pushed the giggling little girl back and forth. Now, she smiled as Sari stirred, her face illuminated by the triangle of light coming through the wood-and-metal windowpane that the real-estate agent had called “farmhouse decor.” Daniel had loved the description, no doubt imaging himself a farmer.
Ruthie texted a picture of serene Sari, clutching the blanket that had belonged to Ruthie as a child, to Ariella.
Best. Mother. Ever. Ariella wrote back, sending a picture of her and Mordy on the Deal boardwalk.
Ruthie sat down heavily on the couch. There was something mesmerizing about the picture, something whole about their expressions. She imagined Mordy sending an e-mail to his clients: Hey, I’m out for the day, if it can’t wait till tomorrow please contact…
Mordy wouldn’t worry about “The first rule of business is to always be available,” like Daniel would. He would laugh it off, assuring Ariella that his clients would be happy to wait a day. They leased cars from him because they liked and trusted him, because his prices were better and he knew cars inside out and made time to discuss if leather seats were worth the extra 47 dollars a month or not. They would be happy he was out breathing ocean air.
And now she knew why she wasn’t feeling the peace that sleeping Sari and grateful Ariella and the sunny living room should have given her.
Because that sort of easy tranquility would never be her lot. Everything was too complicated.
This morning, Daniel had been rhapsodizing about 66 Norton at breakfast. The breakfast itself — whole-grain toast and an egg-white omelet — meant that Daniel was in full-on executive mode; when he was feeling productive and successful, his meals were balanced and generous. The Reisman’s cookies and Franczoz doughnuts that left white powder on his chin were for the other times.
She’d seen him reading a Money magazine article detailing what Fortune 500 CEOs ate for breakfast. “The Lakewood economy is strong,” he told her, “and it’s not a coincidence that most new restaurants are breakfast places. That’s the surge meal, the injection into the day ahead.”
She’d stirred her yogurt and listened for a clue. Was he making money, or was he just talking about everyone else?

(Excerpted from Mishpacha, Issue 726)