The offers were coming in thick and fast. Palms was a budding neighborhood, and the house had turned out sleek and attractive. Two couples from Lakewood, one family from Monsey, an investor, and a couple from Flatbush ready for their second act were all extremely interested in Akiva’s pet project.

He felt genuine excitement showing them the integrated refrigerator, the LED lights under the stairs, the walk-in closet and the free-standing tub. The couple from Lakewood didn’t really seem to care about any of his brilliant design or architecture, they just kept asking him if the place had good bones, and he was secretly glad when their bid fell short.

At the end of the day, it was down to the Flatbush couple and the family from Monsey. He gave them 48 hours to submit final bids and got into his car after the open house feeling around 50 pounds lighter than he had in a long time.

Of course, that’s when Meira called.

“You’re causing a rift in the family, Akiva.”

Akiva considered himself a calm, levelheaded person. But as he listened to Meira, voice high and screechy on his car’s Bluetooth, give him completely unwarranted mussar, he felt his blood boiling.

“I’m causing a rift?” he asked, gripping the steering wheel tightly, his voice growing progressively louder with each word. “Me? A rift? Because I have no interest in flying to some random country for Succos and having Ma tell me where to be, when to be, and what to wear while I’m doing it?

“Because I want to go on Chol Hamoed trips with my kids, things like bowling and apple picking and American Dream Mall, without Daddy pulling me into a round of drinks with the CEO of some cabinet company while the kids get shunted from activity to activity accompanied by Vanessa?”

Meira was quiet, then she said, “Don’t be weird, Akiva, your kids would hate apple picking.”

Thankfully, he was at a red light when he banged his head on the steering wheel out of frustration.

He pulled into his driveway seething with righteous indignation. Who did Meira think she was, calling him out like that? He’d always looked out for his family, always put them first. Didn’t she realize his core personality hadn’t changed just because his financial status had?

Tpparently, Meira wasn’t the only one with strong opinions about Akiva responding to Ma that the brochure looks amazing, but he didn’t think he and Libby would be joining the Succos program, thanks anyway.

Daddy texted him, short and to the point: I’m disappointed in you.

Menashe had said, “Thanks for always making me look good,” which didn’t even deserve a response, and Donni had written, “What happened to yontif being family time?”

But the worst was Zeidy, who called him formally on the phone to tell him that it would mean a lot to him and Bubby to have the whole family together for Yom Tov.

That made Akiva pause, but he needed to double down on his Yom Tov of independence or lose all credibility forever.

“Zeidy, we wish we could be with everyone for Yom Tov. We really do. But it’s expensive to fly everyone to Cancun, and we’re just not in that place right now.”

The silence on the phone was deafening. And long.

Akiva’s Rolex ticked a full minute before Zeidy spoke again. “I see,” he said slowly. And then: “You will be missed.”

And in case this cake of family pressure and demands wasn’t fun enough, the cherry on top was one last message from Daddy before bedtime: “I raised you better than this.”

Libby didn’t say anything, but she’d seen the messages, and Akiva was sure she agreed with his siblings and parents. She would probably enjoy Succos in Cancun. So would he. But right now, the price tag was simply too high. Figuratively. And, literally, as well.

He fell asleep to the tune of “I’m disappointed in you,” with a resounding chorus of “You’re creating a rift in the family.”

He slept right through his alarm, turning over in bed like a grumpy teenager, and he only sat straight up when Libby came bursting back into the room, panting and flushed.

“It’s Menashe. He’s here, downstairs, and he needs you.”

Akiva was dressed in ten seconds, and running down the stairs to his little brother, still slipping on one shoe as he ran.

Menashe was crumpled against the doorframe, shirt untucked, stains on the cashmere sweater that perfectly matched his designer shoes.

Akiva flew over and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Is it Daddy? Zeidy? Not Mommy….”

Menashe looked at him and there was such unbridled terror in his eyes that Akiva had to look away.

“No, Keevs. It’s Dassi.”

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 983)