Chicken in the oven, I head to the patio with my drink. Oh, it’s really good. Which, again, is totally not the point. But, I think, as I lick caramel off the cover, maybe it should be the point a little bit? Because it’s really, really good?

The kids are coming home soon, but until then I’m going to savor this tiny pocket of summer. Perfect weather, perfect view, yummy drink.

I really shouldn’t be so hard on Shmuel. He’s really a good person, and a great husband.

My phone pings. I tear my eyes away from the swaying trees and look at the screen.

Aunt Shevy.

Mindy, we made reservations at Steak Sauce for tomorrow nine p.m. Confirmed the gluten-free options — green light!

Wow, I think my entire mouth just filled with saliva. Steak Sauce is literally the best restaurant I’m actually able to eat in — Shmuel’s aunt is such a doll. She and her husband come in twice a year from Vancouver and insist on taking Shmuel and me out for a good time. They make a big deal about taking their “yeshivah” nephew out; it’s adorable.

Aunt Shevy! Can’t wait! Thank you so much. Triple heart emojis.

Ohhh, I’m excited. I’ll buy the kids bagels for tomorrow — from the yashan place — and then Shmuel and I are going to eat the best meal I’ve had in a long, long time.

I hear the kids bang their way into the house. Maybe if I’m very still, they won’t find me.

“Mooooooooooooooommy!”

Simi comes in holding Eliana on her hip. I smile, because at eight years old, she’s such a little mommy.

“Thanks for walking her home, Sim. Eliana! How was camp, you cutie pie?”

Simi drops Eliana unceremoniously onto the porch; she toddles over, chubby little arms — in her sleeveless romper —swinging with each step. I scoop her up, and we spend the next hour in happy chaos.

Finally, it’s supper time. “Guys, who’s hungry?” I call.

Everyone, apparently. Why’d I offer again?

Shmuel comes home from work as the kids are finishing up their meal. He takes in the scene, opts to wait for his dinner, and we kind of update each other about our day in bursts of conversation punctuated by the kids’ antics.

“Triple Charm finally decided on a logo — Tzippy! Put the baby down!”

“Nice! Goldstein from accounting is moving to Monsey! Chestnut Ridge, but still — Simi, can you fill up the water pitcher?”

Shmuel’s law firm is made up of nice erlich guys, just like him. He loves going to work, and I’m so happy he’s in a place where he’s happy, and there’s a rav who says a daily shiur. It’s nice to see that his going out to work didn’t stop him from growing, unlike some of the other guys I dated. But when I hear the words, “Ackerman just taught me something beautiful,” one more time, I can’t help but squirm.

It’s only once we’re sitting and trying to eat like civilized people that I remember to tell him about Shevy and Moshe’s invite for tomorrow evening.

“Oh, Shmuel, guess what? Aunt Shevy made a reservation for Steak Sauce! Yay for something not cold or dry or bland.” I hold up my chickpea salad in a toast — and then I pause.

Because Shmuel is making his Shmuel face.

No. Nope. Pass.

“Steak Sauce?” he says slowly.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt more defensive in my life, but then again, he’s trying to come between me and my food.

“Yes, Steak Sauce. The restaurant we go to for, like, every anniversary? With the highest-level gluten-free atmosphere and the most incredible food? Like the spare ribs? Remember the spare ribs?” Please remember. Shmuel loves his ribs.

But my husband of ten years just picks at his chicken. “Yeah. I remember. The thing is, some guys in the office were saying that Steak Sauce lost its Rav Goldenbaum hechsher, and now it’s just Vaad. Which is fine. But it’s not really, you know, tops. We ended up ordering from Bistro 306 at our last office lunch.”

Blame the heat, blame hunger, blame the endless days of summer where the sun refuses to set, but I just can’t….

“Shmuel Henner. We are going to Steak Sauce, and we are eating delicious food, and you can NOT make me feel guilty about it not being the tops.”

I sit back down — when had I stood up? — and force a smile out. “I mean, please?”

But Shmuel’s jaw is set and his face is red beneath the beard I did not want him to grow in the first place. He’s not going to give in so easily.

So I do what I always do. I call Rav Weinstein.

See, here’s the thing. When I married Shmuel, I was straight out of sem and floating on a cloud of inspiration and 40 days at the Kosel, and he was a flipped-out Ahavas HaTorah boy, so we kind of met in the middle there and floated and flipped happily on the same page. Also, as I said, he wasn’t my first boy, but he was one who was actively looking to grow, which was so refreshing.

But eventually, I came back down to earth while Shmuel continued upward. And now it feels like we’re traveling different routes and are on very different pages in life’s journey.

I’m proud of him; don’t get me wrong. I know how far he’s come, and how consistent his growth has been. It just feels like he’s taking it too far right now. Also… I’m not there. I’m a growing person, I always have been. But I need to be able to grow at my own pace. Why can’t he just accept that right now, he’s further along than I am, and when I’m ready, I’ll catch up?

We used to buy each other Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups before each date. It was our thing. And I accept that Shmuel no longer eats them. Mostly. But what I mean is, I don’t mind if he takes on his own chumras. I buy yashan for the house, I don’t buy broccoli at all. And I’ve taken to eating Reese’s alone. Shmuel wants me to stop even that. But I can’t.

People complain about what they don’t have, I know that. I know some women would give their eternity bands to have a husband like Shmuel, who cares about his Yiddishkeit and is machmir on the little things. He’s a yerei Shamayim and I respect that. But I don’t always feel that he respects me.

I’m washing dishes when Shmuel pokes his head into the kitchen on the way out to night seder. “The baby’s in her crib, the little kids are tucked in, and the two big ones are waiting for you to say Shema.”

I smile at him in thanks. “Appreciate it. Shmu, I’m going to call Rav Weinstein about the restaurant, okay?”

A muscle works in his cheek. Then he says, “Sure. Let me know what he says.”

Well, I did not expect Rav Weinstein to tell me to come over. I quickly say Shema with the kids, call Rivka from across the street, and then run over the two blocks. It’s a beautiful night, hot but not sticky, and with a slight breeze.

Monsey is always beautiful, but late summers are my favorite.

When did things get so complicated, I think, feet padding down the sidewalk. I miss those days, me and Shmuel, being ourselves, admiring each other’s paths and journeys.

The rebbetzin waves at me from the open kitchen, and Rav Weinstein invites me into his office.

“Mrs. Henner, how are you? Why don’t you tell me about this latest situation?”

I quickly fill him in, and embarrassingly, my eyes fill with tears. It’s just a restaurant; what’s my problem?

But I know what it is. It’s the fact that disagreeing with someone day in and day out is exhausting. Utterly and entirely depleting. And I know that the right answer is probably to take on the things my husband wants me to, but I’m not there yet, and it’s really hard. Given his background, he doesn’t always get the social nuances of the little things he wants. I’m a regular frum mother, same as the next woman on the park bench, and I don’t want to look different from the other women sitting in the neighborhood. I don’t want to dress differently; I don’t want to be the only one whose kids can’t eat the same food as everyone else. But Shmuel… wants more.

I convey this to the rav, who nods.

“If you want to know my thoughts on the Vaad hechsher, that’s one thing. But let me say this about the shalom bayis issue you two are facing: Shalom comes above all. For now, let Shmuel know that he should go to the restaurant so that his aunt and uncle are not insulted. Tell him to call me, and I’ll walk him through the better options on the menu. And we’ll talk again about how to navigate all this. I’d like to sit down with both of you to discuss it.”

I wave goodbye to the rebbetzin and walk out, head spinning.

The rav said that shalom comes above all. He knows Steak Sauce isn’t the best anymore, but he wants Shmuel to go there anyway. Maybe…. Maybe that means I’m also allowed to just do what I need to do, on my level. I need to think about this.

Look, I said this before. I know Shmuel’s way is better. But I’m not there yet, and why should we spend our days arguing and growing more distant from each other when we could coexist perfectly without stepping on each other’s toes. As long as… I… start keeping a whole lot more to myself.

I let myself into the house, pay Rivka, and close the door on this thoughtful note.

MY venti iced skinny vanilla latte hits the spot after my Walmart run.

“This,” I tell Eliana, whose day camp ended a week earlier than the rest of the world, buckling her back into her car seat, “is called self-care.”

“Elf care!” she says gleefully.

Oops. She better not say that around Shmuel. I make sure to throw my cup out at the gas station while I’m filling up. I kind of hate that I have to do that, but I can’t deny that these past few weeks have been much more pleasant on the home front. We haven’t had a chance to sit down together with Rav Weinstein, but I know Shmuel appreciates my efforts. He even left me chocolate mints on my pillow last night with a note about how he sees I’m growing and he’s thankful for my part on his journey. How nice is that, but also, how guilty did I feel.

The next day, after taking the kids to the eye doctor for checkups, they clamor for pizza, and truthfully, I’m kind of starving myself. Slice and Dice across the street has a great salad bar with no cross contamination… but it isn’t yashan.

But we’re here, the kids are hot and kvetchy, and I’m hungry. And with a good meal, we can catch the back-to-school sales once we’re out anyway….

But I have perfectly good, yashan, frozen pizzas at home. And a can of chickpeas. And truthfully, I wasn’t planning to do school shopping today.

But….

I throw back my shoulders. “Okay, guys, you earned it.”

We walk into Slice and Dice chattering and laughing, to all the world at ease, but inside, my stomach is twisting. Shmuel never has to know where I took the kids, but am I comfortable being the sort of wife who hides things? My own lattes and Reese’s are one thing, but I don’t want the kids telling Shmuel where I took them for lunch. Neither do I want to warn them not to say anything, which will backfire — and that’s the least of it. I don’t really want the kids thinking that I hide things from Shmuel… even if I do, I guess.

I’m not sure which I’d rather: stifle under chumras or become adept at keeping things from my husband. Now, what?

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 909)