Rich people create pressure. They give money but they also give dei’os. You’re a servant with all expenses paid.

Kivi had heard all the horror stories, the tales of those who’d married wealthy and found themselves trapped in gilded cages. And not everyone was lucky enough for even that. Deutsch, back in the dirah, had known a guy who’d married “not rich, but mega-rich, like top ten. And with all that, he’s mamash an eved kenaani — they’re all into work, work, work, start from the bottom, that type. Not just anti kollel, but also anti basic comfort. He’s expected to be at work by eight o’clock in the morning, and his shver wants him to oversee the shippers. Imagine that — he’s in the warehouse all day, freezing in a fleece sweatshirt and worrying about getting hit by a forklift. But no worries, ’cause he gets to go to Colombia for Pesach with them, so it’s worth it. Ke’ilu.”

Wagner, who’d seen his role in the dirah as Deutsch’s sparring partner, had countered, “Deutsch, there has never been a Pesach program in Columbia and never will be. It’s a pretty dangerous place.”

Deutsch had looked at him with disdain. “Whatever. Constantinople or maybe Croatia. You get the point. And don’t worry — no rich person is taking you with your pants three inches too short, so it’s not your problem.”

Kivi had laughed at the conversations. He hadn’t expected a rich shidduch, but he also didn’t believe the exaggerated tales of control. Manipulative people, he’d learned, crave control whether or not they have money.

From the moment he’d gotten engaged to Malky, he’d dealt with the teasing and the jokes, but he’d known intuitively that he wouldn’t become a dirah story along the lines of “Kivi Denburger was such an easygoing guy — for goodness’ sake, he was from Cleveland — and now he’s all buttoned up and takes himself all seriously, like, come on, man.”

“My in-laws are different,” he’d assured Wagner.

He wasn’t wrong.

It was no secret that Benjy and Naomi Halb wanted Kivi and Malky to live on Minchas Yitzchak where all their children had started married life, but Kivi’s friends were on Sorotzkin. Benjy had smiled, said, “Sorotzkin, so interesting,” and handed over a check for the first six months’ rent, plus a month for the agent who had found them the apartment.

There had never been pressure about when to move back or leave kollel, only respect and space for Kivi and Malky to make their own decisions.

But now, as Kivi, Malky, and Mendy took their Economy Plus seats, Kivi felt like he had to say something. Malky was trying to get Mendy settled, and she was rummaging through the carry-on bag for his snack bag and toy.

He knew she was distracted, but he couldn’t help himself. “Malky, I feel like your father is way too busy with me, like he’s not okay with me anymore. What’s the deal?”

There was a certain air of buoyancy around the office, like a classroom when the teacher is away. Wagner was lying on the couch completely prone, and Leizer was trying his hand at basketball, tossing the dollar-store Nerf ball at the plastic hoop outside Kivi’s office and missing again and again.

Daniel was the only one working, his disapproval at their lightheartedness rising like heat off the pavement. His office door was half open, and when the ball rolled into his office, he looked up with a frown.

Wagner was telling Leizer about a client who’d booked a room at the Metcalfe in Coral Gables, and in the middle of the night, the fire alarm had gone off and ruined his sleep.

“The hotel says they’re not comping him for it, these things happen, no one’s fault, etcetera, etcetera. So I went online and asked around in different forums about people who’ve had the alarm go off at that particular hotel, and turns out, this is the seventh time it happened in the last six months. That’s crazy.”

Leizer squeezed the ball tightly. “No way.”

(Excerpted from Mishpacha, Issue 743)