“Okay, good, I was hoping you would ask.” Dassi laughed at herself. Classic. “Listen. What have I been saying to you once a month for the last six years? I need my own space. I love my mother, I love my stepfather, but at the end of the day, there’s a level of comfy I’ll never be able to achieve in that house.”

She paused to take a breath and let Chayala get a word in, but Chayala wasn’t in the mood to bite.

“This is our moment, Chay,” Dassi forged on. “Let’s finally do it! Get an apartment together!”

Chayala rolled her eyes again. “I can’t go over this again, Dass. I love you, but you’re insane. My mother would literally never forgive me, she’d insist that I’d never get a normal date again, and I refuse to make Havdalah for myself for the next ten years. I know you, and you’re being crazy right now because you think it will cheer me up,” she said.

Dassi laughed. “I’m always crazy. But this is good crazy! That gorgeous building on Glencove was just finished, and I’m sure they have vacancies. Who cares what people think? It’s time we start living for ourselves, Chay.”

Chayala closed her eyes and rubbed her suddenly aching temples. “It’s not like I have time to deliberate about this,” she said. “But I really need time to deliberate.”

“Welcome, welcome!” Mrs. Gutmacher trilled, arms open for two-year-old Avigdor. Etty Pollack shot her mother what she hoped was a we’re-thrilled-to-be-here-for-Shabbos-but-I’ll-be-more-thrilled-to-successfully-transfer-this-sleeping-infant-without-incident-so-silence-would-be-fantastic-but-I’m-not-exactly-going-to-shush-my-own-mother face.

She was sick and tired of sleep training. She really was. It was so nice that her friend’s sister swore by this amazing no-cry, kid-sleeps-through-the-night-at-three-months fairytale, but whatever worked for other people never did for her. And there was no worse time to feel like an utter failure as a mother than when she went to her own mother for Shabbos, who opened the door with her signature serene smile, and in no time would be magically soothing colicky Chaim Zev while playing Duplo with Avigdor and somehow also taking a perfectly risen marble sponge cake out of the oven at the same time.

Etty’s husband Ezzi rolled their black hard-shell Samsonite suitcase with “P” emblazoned in peeling masking tape on the side into the guest room downstairs, the pack ‘n play wedged, leaning precariously across the handle. Etty winced, hoping he wouldn’t knock anything over. She set a large plastic container filled with s’mores bars on the counter, and on second thought, took one out to give one to Avigdor before the inevitable begging began.

Mrs. Gutmacher glanced over at the red-lidded Rubbermaid container and gave her daughter a wide smile. “That was so thoughtful of you, sheifeleh, I was really looking for a new mezonos that Tatty might like.”

Etty’s eyes slid to the gleaming glass Bundt cake stand on the counter, but she didn’t say a word. Her mother made a brachah and took a bite, and her eyes widened in a way that felt only slightly exaggerated.

“Where is this recipe from, Etts? It’s delicious!”

Etty picked up Avigdor, who was already angling for another cookie bar.

“My friend Chayala, actually. How funny is that, right? I mean, I know she knows what looks nice on the table, you know, she has a tableware company, but surprisingly, she’s a really good cook, too. It’s crazy how some people are so good at things they don’t even practice. Chaval…” she trailed off meaningfully.

Mrs. Gutmacher tsked-tsked reproachfully. “What do you mean, surprisingly? Who said a girl becomes an adult the day after her chassan breaks the glass? She’s as accomplished as any one of you girls. More, with that company she started.”

Etty brushed the crumbs off Avigdor’s chin and sighed. “You know what I mean, Ma. I love her. It’s just hard.”

“She’s doing great, and Hashem sends everyone their bashert at the right time. And if you want to do something, you can try to be the shaliach for her, but that’s it.”

Mrs. Gutmacher rummaged through the tea box to find the jasmine peach one she liked.

“A good, frum boy with a plan, right? I’m going to post her again in my shidduch chat. I have a meeting next week. What about that friend of Ezzi’s, that nice boy who spoke at your aufruf?”

“Five years ago? He has three kids now, Ma.”

“What about Dovid’s friend, Yishai? He was always so polite….”

“Ma, she dates plenty. I’m always getting calls about her, I give the best reference. She’s pretty, her family is great. We just need to find her the right one.”

Mrs. Gutmacher’s eyes gleamed. “And we’re going to,” she declared.

Chayala lovingly picked up her Oma Chaya’s bone china soup tureen and wrapped it in bubble wrap, taping the edges down with deft hands that were used to packaging. Back in the early days, HUIS was a one-woman show she ran out of a tiny warehouse, with Chayala working obscene hours to get it all done. She’d spent days packing glassware for shipment while on the phone with suppliers or accountants or marketing agencies.

These days, being in the home she grew up in stressed her out more than launching her own business ever had. She put the family heirloom snugly in the corner of a large box marked “Dining Room” in thick black sharpie in her mother’s elegant script. Her mother was sitting next to her, dealing with the crystal compote bowls.

Chayala hadn’t been alone with her mother since the conversation, now five days in the past (five days that felt like five years, Chayala had remarked ruefully to Shira, when she’d called to check on her under the guise of wanting a restaurant recommendation). She knew her mother had been avoiding this, the opportunity for Chayala to address the elephant in the room they’d been tiptoeing around for days.

Chayala steeled herself and looked up, straight into her mother’s face. “Ma…”

She started, softer than she intended it to be. She cleared her throat and gathered her resolve. “Ma. I can’t see how this is going to work for me.”

Her mother looked around hopefully, like this conversation wouldn’t be heading in the direction they both knew it would be. “Packing? You can’t help me pack, zeeskeit?”

Chayala ignored the epithet and barreled on. “The apartment you’re moving to has three bedrooms, Ma. This house is a squeeze and it’s got four, and that’s with Moishy in yeshivah most of the time. It just doesn’t make sense for me to move with you. And not just because I’ll have nowhere to sleep. I’m trying to move forward in my life, not backward. And moving into an apartment with my five siblings and parents feels like a backward move.” She straightened her blazer sleeve, which she’d kept on after a long day in the office to help her fake the sense of control and calmness she was badly craving. She took another breath. “I discussed it with Uncle Tzvi, and he—”

“You called my brother?” Mrs. Fried interrupted, a definite note of panic in her voice. “This wasn’t your information to tell, Chayala. I know you’re not thrilled, but this is Tatty’s private business and…”

“Well, I needed an objective sounding board,” Chayala interjected. She put down the silver menorah she was wrapping in packing paper and crossed her arms. “I’m sorry you’re upset, but I was discreet. And besides, I told him my issues, not your issues.”

“What are your issues?” asked her mother. As if the live grenade of chaos they had dropped on Chayala’s lap wouldn’t detonate.

“Oh, I don’t have any,” said Chayala, blithely, almost rudely. She just couldn’t censor herself any longer. “I’m getting an apartment with Dassi. We’re moving on Sunday.”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 825)