Uncharacteristically, though, Ari said, “You ever dated someone and it felt different from the beginning?”

The phone rang once, twice, and a third time, and with every trill Mrs. Fried steeled her reserve. She settled on the bottom basement step and tucked the cordless against her neck, aimlessly pulling at a loose thread in her sweater sleeve. She whispered a tefillah to say the right thing, as she always did when she made phone calls about shidduchim.

“Hello?” A warm voice answered, one Mrs. Fried hadn’t heard in years.

“Hi, Rivka, this is Shaindy Fried,” she stammered. “Chayala’s mother?”

“Shaindy? What a nice surprise!” Mrs. Gutmacher’s smile was audible through the phone.

Mrs. Fried swallowed and said what she had called to say before she lost her nerve. “Rivka, I need your help, but… you can’t tell Chayala.”

There was a pause, and the quiet threatened the hold on the doubt and stress and worry Mrs. Fried had been keeping at bay for so long. But then Mrs. Gutmacher answered, and the noise in her mind receded again. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong? And I can try to help. I’m not usually a fan of keeping secrets, but I’m willing to hear why you think it might be necessary.”

Mrs. Fried took a fortifying breath, and stood up to pace. “I know your Etty and Chayala are still close, and I love that. I’m not sure what Chayala tells Etty, or what Etty tells you, but for a number of reasons, it feels like if Chayala doesn’t get married soon, it’s going to be much harder for her in the future.”

She paused. Mrs. Gutmacher was quiet, listening, so she continued. “I was hoping you would be willing to spend some time focusing on redting shidduchim for Chayala. I know you’re busy, but in the last eight, nine years, I never felt like there was any shadchan who prioritized her.”

“I’m sure that must feel very isolating,” Mrs. Gutmacher responded, her voice understanding and knowing all at once.