Then came the phone call. “Rivkie, it’s Chana. I cannot believe what I just heard"

November 2009. I’d just celebrated my 32nd birthday.

I had a pair of seven-year-old twins, a five-year-old daughter, and a four-year-old son. I looked in the mirror and could not believe that a soon-to-be divorcee was staring back at me.

I called the man at the health food store and asked for vitamins to tide me over. I actually said, “What can I take, my husband just picked up and left?” He sent me ITC powder and calcium tablets to help me sleep. And he said, “Don’t worry, you’ll get over this tough time.”

Then came the phone call. “Rivkie, it’s Chana. I cannot believe what I just heard. You must be going through so much. Are you home for Shabbos…? Good, because I’m sending you fish and kiggel.” (Kugel in our vernacular). And that was that. No inquisitive queries, no demands for explanations, no interrogations. Short and to the point.

Then came the delivery, and with it a message: “Rivkie, I’m sending you fish and kiggel every Friday forever! I don’t even care if you remarry — this is my show of support!” I laughed and told her she was crazy… that I’ll accept the food this week, but no more. Chana was a classmate from high school whom I’d scarcely kept up with. How could I accept this regularly?