I was comfortable with little, but I needed a job. Desperately

MY parents raised us well. We were blessed with a happy home, and we always had what we needed. We bought shoes when the old ones tore, not when the season and street dictated that we do so, and always on sale. Yet we did chesed and often gave tzedakah to those less fortunate than us, with the full knowledge that it was the mitzvos that counted in life, not the bank account.

I was the luckiest girl in the world, and I knew it. I had turned 18 in December, and had gotten engaged right after Pesach, still in school. I had always been the “mature” one of my friends, and I knew that my parents were getting shidduch suggestions for me throughout the year. The phones had been ringing steadily, and we didn’t take it for granted. In our chassidus, it was acceptable for girls to get engaged young, and those who were still waiting past their 20th birthday were often the exception, not the rule.

Yehuda Katz was the perfect boy from the nicest family. My grandparents knew his grandparents, and I was thrilled with my future in-laws.

My best friend Toby was the second-happiest person at my vort. Good-hearted, dependable Toby had been my dream-come-true friend, storybook style, since kindergarten. We had weathered our share of storms and arguments, but had always emerged stronger and closer than ever.

When I stepped out of the clouds, it was already mid-May, and my friends were talking about summer camp and future jobs. I blinked and realized, with a start, that I really needed to find a job for next year if I planned to pay rent at the beginning of each month. This thought was a lonely one, funny to most of my single friends, but serious for me. They laughed when they said, “Chani Katz,” using my married last name as an easy joke. I swallowed hard and perused the local papers desperately.