The memories in my mind, the warmth of having Daddy — my kind, loving father.

The longing in my heart, the ache of losing Daddy — my wise, patient mentor.

The numbers on the screen, the guilt of failing Daddy — Simon E. Friedler.

I’m still sitting there, left hand supporting my forehead, right hand clutching my back, despair clogging the stuffy little room, when Dovid gets home.

I rub my eyes and look up. “I think I’m letting Michal go.”

“The girl who handles paperwork?”

I nod. “I can’t afford to keep her on anymore.” I turn the laptop toward him. “Look.”

“So in addition to meetings and bookkeeping and negotiating and mothering, you’ll manage all the paperwork too?”

I shrug. “What choice do I have?”

Dovid settles onto the folding chair perpendicular to my desk and pulls the laptop closer.

He chews the inside of his lip. “You know…” He looks up from the screen. “You could give it up.”

I swivel sharply, forgetting my back, then wince. “Give up… the business?”

I’m not sure why I’m shocked. For all his qualities, my husband is notoriously quick to give up. He’d lasted all of four months in law school before concluding it was “too intense.”

“Quitting isn’t the answer. If I give up every time the going gets tough…” I fix my eyes on his. “You know, you would have been a lawyer by now.”

“Oooh, Liba.” He leans his head back against the chair. “Can we stop rehashing this? It wasn’t working, I had to quit, I’m doing just fine in mortgages.”

“Just fine” is earning him roughly half of what he could’ve been making if only he’d stuck it out, instead of bolting at the first hint of difficulty.

“So.” Dovid moves the computer back to face me.

“I can’t give it up.”

“I didn’t say you should. Just that the option exists.”

To people like Dovid, it’s an option. But I’m not a quitter. Besides, it’s not my decision to make.

I swallow. “Daddy’s yahrtzeit is next month.”

Dovid nods, his gray eyes twin question marks.

“The company… it’s his. And when he gave it to me, he trusted me to manage it as he would have.”

I remember that day, four years ago, when Daddy had handed over the thriving enterprise he’d labored to create. “I’m no longer young,” he’d told me. “The business is taking more than I can give.” And I’d looked my father in the eye and promised that I’d take care of his business. That I’d run it the way he had.

“Daddy was the strongest person I knew.” Something inside me is vibrating, the urgency to make Dovid understand.  “Daddy never gave up. So how can I give up his business?”

Dovid regards me for a long moment. “I hear. But it isn’t easy on you, keeping this going.”

“No.” My eyes pool. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

But I’m a Friedler. I’m strong enough to do it.

I drop my chin into my palms, and contemplate the numbers for 15 seconds.

Then, like Daddy would have done, I straighten up, square my shoulders, and find the registration link for the New York Builders Expo. I’ll form connections, find new leads, and boost the company’s bottom line.

I’m going to push through this.

“Liba Berman of Simon Friedler Expediting,” I chirp for the hundredth time, coaxing my lips into what I hope still resembles a smile.

The cavernous room is abuzz. People mill about between the booths, nodding, shaking hands, exchanging cards. There’s the steady hum of voices, occasional laughter, and the flash of screens broadcasting their messages to the multitudes at “New York’s premier construction networking event.”

I’d started the day with freshly printed brochures, my widest smile, and a great deal of hopeful anticipation. But at 4:07 p.m., all I have to show is a dwindling pile of business cards, two lukewarm “we’ll be in touch”s, a tinge of hoarseness, and an aching back.

The event wraps up at five, which leaves my booth less than an hour to prove worth its cost.

I fix my eyes on the short, brown-suited man facing me — Jeff Fraser of RightStructure Developers — and inject my voice with more vigor than I possess. “We know the ins and outs, we know the DOB, we know how to get you what you need.”

Jeff looks me in the eye, then peruses the brochure in his hands. I forcibly keep my fingers from clenching into fists.

“We have a project…” he says finally.

YES!!!

“A complex in the Bronx, almost complete, and the folks at the building department decide they don’t like the engineer after all.” He drops the pamphlet onto the little table between us. “They stopped construction four months ago, we’re losing money every day.”

Oh.

The jig in my chest stops abruptly, replaced by a morose thudding. A discredited engineer and a colossal headache.

I’d never accepted these jobs. “Either I handle the project, or I don’t,” Daddy had taught me early in the game. “Cleaning up someone’s mess is more aggravation than it’s worth.” And as messes go, this particular one is bound to be, well… messy. It’ll take endless work, intense stress, hours of negotiations and explanations and revisions and frustrations. And with Michal gone, I’m overwhelmed as is.

But the day is rapidly fading, and with it, the company’s chances. I ignore the tightness in my chest and the exhaustion flooding my limbs, and smile. “I’d be glad to help.”

Three minutes later, Jeff has my info and my promise, and I’m left with a pit in my stomach.

“Liba!” A familiar headful of black curls approaches.

“Sandy!” She’s no longer my client, but six years of working with Insignia has turned its exuberant logistics manager into something of a friend.

Sandy leans in for a quick hug. “It’s been a while! How’s it going?”

“It has been a while.” I half-smile. “It hasn’t been the same without you.”

“Ooooh.” She pouts.  “I’m sorry. Sadly, I’m just a cog in the wheel.”

“Hey, I wasn’t blaming you.”

“I know, I know.” She rubs my shoulder. “I really liked working with you, though.”

I sigh. “Would you consider talking to management again?”

“Well, actually, they want to start in-house expediting. Cost, convenience, all that. So it—” Her eyes widen, and she claps a hand to her cheek. “Ohmigosh! Liba! This would be perfect!”

She pulls a chair up from somewhere, and joins me behind the table. “Oooookay. We gotta talk.”

I sit, bemused.

“So Insignia’s looking to hire an experienced professional to handle their expediting. And I think you’d be fantastic for the job.”

I gape. “Um, Sandy. I already have a job. A business.”

She waves a hand. “You’d probably earn more with us. Insignia has gotten big. And Nick, our CEO, he might be a bit full of himself, but,” she leans close and whispers, loud enough for the security guard outside to hear, “he pays very well.”

I shake my head. “It’s not the money. It’s… this is my company we’re talking about.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Her curls bob. “I get it, I do. Shutting down a business is a big deal.” She shrugs. “But then again, so is running one.”

And she doesn’t know the half of it.

Sandy cocks her head. “Imagine if you could ditch the pesky technicalities and spend all your time chatting with the nice chaps at the DOB.  No accounting, no IT, no sales work, none of that stuff.”

No sleepless nights, no wrestling with the numbers, no need to accept jobs that bring on a migraine just thinking about them.

“Think about it.” She ticks off her fingers. “More money, more status, less hours, less pressure. Plus, you get to work with me.” She winks. “Win-win-win-win.”

The more she talks, the better it sounds. The better it sounds, the worse I feel. Because saying yes would mean betraying my promise. My father.

I swallow. “I hear you. I appreciate it. Really. But it’s not something I want to do at this point. It’s… I can’t.”

“Hey, no rush.” she stands up. “Take some time, think about it. Let’s be in touch.” She blows a kiss and waves. “Awesome running into you!”

I look out at the rapidly dwindling crowd, then down at the jumble of brochures littering my table. I sigh and begin gathering them up.

Think about it. Right.

I’m going to spend the night desperately trying not to think about it.

I hang up the phone and blow out a breath.

That was my sixth attempt at getting an examiner to approve Klein’s renovation plans. And evidently, there’s a seventh one coming up.

Shaya Klein is losing patience. “It keeps stalling,” he’d griped yesterday. “If you can’t get it done…”

I shouldn’t be losing sleep over a client like Klein. A project or two a year, decent sized, nothing huge. But right now, every client is a client I can’t afford to lose.

Then there’s RightStructure. The DOB wants a full job audit, down to the foundation. Untangling this disaster is gobbling up my energy and my days.

I click into Outlook, check to see if maybe one of the “maybes” from the expo had reached out.

No such luck. There’s a message from Sandy, though.

Hey Liba, was awesome meeting you the other day! I spoke to Nick, described some of your past work, he’s super impressed  . They’re meeting on February 24 to discuss potential candidates, so if you reconsider about closing your business, give a holler by the 23rd!

I groan. Saaaandy. She doesn’t know the torture she’s putting me through.

And I have something on the 23rd — maybe RightStructure’s inspection?

My phone buzzes. Dovid. I’m in the area, want something to eat?

Warmth floods me. Quitter or not, he’s a good husband. And I should get breakfast — I notice the time — lunch. I haven’t eaten today. I order an avocado toast and return to my inbox.

An email from Shaya Klein, with the subject line, in all caps, “E. 9TH APPROVAL STATUS??????,” four e-faxes from old Mr. Werner, all cut off in exactly the same place. And Rob from Chase, informing me that we didn’t meet the minimum monthly balance, they’re going to charge for checking. Again.

I drop my forehead onto my palms and rub my eyes. I’m tired, so, so tired. And not only because I was up last night worrying about Klein.

The thought gels in my brain, sudden and simple.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

I don’t want to live in terror of losing clients. I don’t want to be forced to take on draining projects. I don’t want to deal with the constant, crushing burden of holding up, with my bare hands, numbers that seem intent on crashing down.

I allow the realization to spread through me, to seep into my every weary fiber. Then I sit up slowly, grip my mouse, and move toward Sandy’s email. I’m not doing anything, I assure the guilt wriggling in my gut. Not yet, at least. There’s no harm in scouting out the website, getting more of a feel for the company. Right?

Insignia’s website is a sleek blend of crimson and gray, imposing skyscrapers, brilliant smiles, and promise of boundless potential. A black square flashes insistently. “Watch the TED Talk given by Nick Simmons, Insignia CEO.”

Nice. I click the box.

Nick Simmons is a slim fiftyish man, with a brown comb over and an abundance of confidence. He speaks easily, and I find myself listening intently as he describes his modest beginnings.

“Hi.” Dovid walks in bearing a brown paper bag.

I pull the earbuds from my ears. “Thanks. I could use it today. What’s in the area?”

“Meeting with a client, nothing too exciting.”

“Oh,” I remember. “This came today, you should put it in your calendar.” I hand him his alma mater’s dinner invite. “They’re honoring Yitzy Groman, remember him?” The Gromans had lived down the block back when we’d been in that temporary place. I hadn’t realized they were honoree material.

Dovid scans the invite. “Yeah.” An odd expression flits across his face. “Popular fellow. Works in tax law, makes bombs of money, made a real ritzy bar mitzvah last year.” There’s that look again. I’m not sure what to make of it.

“Nasty guy? Arrogant?”

“What?” Dovid looks startled. “Oh, no, no, no. He’s a good person. Nice, generous, unpretentious enough.” He looks down, fumbles with the card in his hand. “He was in my class in law school.”

Oh.

They’d started off together, Dovid and Groman. Similar paths, similar strengths, similar dreams. But he’d endured where Dovid had quit.

Yitzy Groman is the success that Dovid could have been.

The starkness of it hovers thickly. I should say something, wave the implied reproach away. But I’m silent as I watch Dovid leave.

I re-insert my earphones and go back to the screen, where Nick is still earnestly holding forth.

“Grit,” he states emphatically. “That’s the key.” He brings his hands together. “I faced many obstacles. And I’ll tell you, persistence can be mighty tough.” His deep brown eyes bore into mine. “Giving up is easy. But those courageous enough to persevere, they’re the ones who ultimately succeed.”

The little red ball reaches the end of the video’s progress bar, and Nick falls silent.

My guilt has metamorphosed in deep, blazing shame.

I guide the cursor decisively toward the “x” in the upper right corner. I click three times, banishing Nick, his website, and Sandy’s email into oblivion. I’m going to keep trying.

Because Nick Simmons is right.

And also, because I’ve remembered what I have on the 23rd. February 23 is chaf-beis Adar.

Daddy’s yahrtzeit.

“Wow, the guy in the yellow sweater,” Dovid points his chin. “He’s smooth.”

I force a mouthful of frigid air past the rock in my ribcage, and halfheartedly scan the ice for yellow.

It had been Dovid’s idea to come here and observe the skating. “It’s President’s Day” he’d said. “And you need to air out. A few hours of forgetting the business, of not sweating over the numbers.”

But sitting at the rink, happy music swirling around me and skate-encased feet zooming past me, “forgetting the business” is turning out impossible.

I can forcibly freeze the numbers out of my mind. But that doesn’t keep them from squeezing my chest, churning my gut, and clamping my airways shut.

The Asian woman near me waves as a dark-haired teenager whizzes by. A Mickey-clad boy bounces by the barrier. I swallow a wave of nausea as I pretend not to think about Klein’s annoyance, RightStructure’s inspection, and my bottom line.

There’s a strange sort of energy pulsing through me that’s got nothing to do with the gliding figures or the lively beat. I try to tap into the lightness, the cheeriness, the easy energy rippling about. But I don’t know how we’ll survive if Klein leaves, I don’t know how we’ll survive even if he stays, and the worries and demands and the numbers and the everything, it’s so much, it’s too much. My hands feel shaky and something inside threatens to erupt.

I get up abruptly. “Let’s walk.”

Dovid raises an eyebrow. “So fast?”

“I just — I need to move.”

He continues observing the skaters as we stroll alongside the perimeter of the rink.

“I’m just so stressed,” I say. “The clients, the schedule, the financials…” I make another attempt at expanding my lungs. “You can’t imagine what it feels like.”

Dovid stops short, and turns to look me full in the face. “I know exactly what it feels like.” He resumes walking. “Suffocating. Like all the air is being sucked from your life. And there’s this tension inside that won’t let you relax.”

I’m startled into silence, not just by the precision with which he nailed it, but the intensity with which he said it.

We reach a cluster of picnic tables. Dovid gestures at the café. “Let’s get drinks.”

I follow him into the bustling restaurant. “Pepsi,” he says to the harried-looking woman behind the counter. I order ginger ale, with lots of ice.

I slide into a chair at an empty table, and the purse on my lap bursts into song. I fish out my phone. Shaya Klein. I inhale through my nose, dredge up the scraps of my professional patience, and swipe answer.

The barrage I braced for doesn’t come.

“As soon as we get approval,” Klein says calmly, “I’m taking the plans and going elsewhere.”

The people around me go fuzzy and muted. This isn’t happening.

“But,” I sputter, “I’m working on it, we’re almost there. I already gave the mechanical guy a deposit…”

“It’s taking far too long. I spoke with another expeditor, someone Bernstein, he says he’d have gotten approval weeks ago.”

My heart gallops frantically. “I understand your frustration, but—”

But he’s gone, leaving me with icy hands, burning cheeks, and rising panic.

A Hispanic waiter materializes, cola in one hand, a cup of amber-colored liquid in the other. No ice.

That does it.

“My ice!” I slap both hands onto the table. “I asked for ice, and there is no ice!”

The instant the words are out, I catch myself.

There’s silence. Then the startled waiter apologizes and scurries off to safety. Dovid stares like he’s never seen me before. I drop my flaming face into my palms.

Dovid’s voice. “What. Just. Happened?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

I don’t know where that came from. I don’t know who I’ve become.

I lost it over ice cubes.

“Ma’am, your ice.”

I lift my head. The waiter is back, warily proffering a cup filled to the brim with ice. I mumble thanks and set it on the table, not even adding the ice to my drink.

I lost it over ice cubes.

Dovid sips his soda silently. I spin my straw round and round, whirling the bubbly amber liquid into a tornado.

Daddy would never have lost it like this.

Halfway through his drink, Dovid looks up. “I would’ve been a lawyer by now. But Dovid Berman would have died in the process.” He glances near my elbow, at the partially-melted mass of ice and mortification. “Not every price is worth paying.”

My back shoots steady jolts of pain. I watch the fizz whip furiously around my cup, and wonder what Daddy would’ve  replied.

We walk through the black metal gates, Tzvi, Shaina, Yehudis, Binyamin, and me, and into the eerie stillness. The wind is brutal, the sun is nowhere to be found, and I pull my hood on as we begin trekking up the narrow path.

There’s so much swelling inside of me — overwhelming sadness, crushing guilt, and a peculiar sense of connection — as we move closer to the spot where Daddy lies.

There’s also the question that’s been plaguing me for two days.

How would Daddy have handled this predicament? And how betrayed would he feel if he knew how badly I’m tempted to quit?

Tzvi and Shaina turn left. I follow on wobbly legs. I wonder if Daddy would regret placing his life’s work in my hands. I wonder what made him believe I was strong enough to fill his shoes.

“Daddy poured his soul into the business,” I blurt. “So why did he give it to me?”

Tzvi turns his head back and squints at me.

“It was wrenching for him,” he says, the words emerging in little white puffs. “But he was struggling to concentrate, it was sapping his energy, running the business was becoming too much.”

I shake my head. “That’s not what I—” And then I go quiet.

Because the question I’d really meant to ask — the question that’s been hounding me for far too long — has an answer that’s suddenly abundantly clear.

Running the business was becoming too much.

For years, Daddy gave the business his all. He toiled, he sweated, he stopped at nothing to build it up.

And then he couldn’t do it anymore.

And Daddy, master of grit, the man who embodied strength, the powerhouse who breathed perseverance, had stood tall and looked reality squarely in the eye. “The business is taking more than I can give.”

And he gave it up.

A pale gray headstone rises before us. Shimon Ezra ben Chananya Tzvi. A chill trembles inside of me. Daddy.

I stumble forward, choked by a roiling mess of grief and love and confusion. I rest my hand on the smooth granite, willing it to anchor me, as Daddy always had. And from the maelstrom within, a single truth emerges.

“Daddy,” I whisper, “you were so much stronger than I realized.”

Standing under a dreary sky, surrounded by acres of green and gray, I huddle into my coat and cling to this remnant of Daddy. And I think about courage and persistence and the limits of grit, about Daddy and Dovid, about holding on and letting go, and the many faces of strength.

The monitor sits at eye level, pitch-black and impassive. It’s February 23. Decision time.

I reach out shakily, swipe at my eyes, and bring the screen to life. Giving up is not easy, Nick Simmons. Not by far. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

But I’m a Friedler. I’m strong enough to do it.

I pull up my spreadsheet, Simon E. Friedler Expediting Corp., and stare at the sad red numbers for a full minute.

Then, like Daddy would have done, like Daddy had done — and like Dovid had done too — I swallow hard, close out Excel, and find Sandy’s email.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 782)