T

hat night, after the Kagan kids have been picked up and my own finally tucked in, I settle onto the couch, swollen feet propped on a pillow, laptop open on my lap. Newborn photography had started out as a hobby after Tehila was born, and when I saw I could turn it into a mini side business, I tried to take on as many clients as my schedule allowed.

I’m not professional enough to make it big, but I try to keep up with the trends since the money is nice, and taking pictures of cuddly babies sure beats crunching numbers at the office. I lean closer to the screen, fingers hovering over the mouse.

Every detail is perfect: baby swaddled in cream linen, soft blush backdrop, delicate knitted bonnet framing her head. The kind of photograph the new mother will trace with her finger and cherish for years — a sweet taste of arriving within the chaos that mothering can be.

Except… there it is. In the bottom right corner. The two-year-old brother is scowling. I exhale through my nose. Older siblings should look proud, not like they’re plotting a jailbreak.

No matter. I have another shot of him smiling. Two clicks, a few layers in Photoshop, and no one will ever know. A magic wand for fixing what isn’t right. I wish there was one for the rest of my life.

I look at Chezky at the dining room table, his laptop open, his eyes glazed.

“Anything?” I ask, tilting my head toward his screen.

Chezky rubs his forehead. “There are jobs. Just… nothing I can see myself doing long-term.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. He said the same thing last week. And the week before.

“Before we married,” I say, closing my computer, “we had a plan.”

“I know, I know.” Chezky hunches further, his nose practically brushing the screen. “That I’d bring in parnassah while you stay home with the children. It’s just that there’s nothing here—”

“We don’t have the luxury of waiting for a dream job,” I interrupt, my voice rising. “I can’t be the only one holding the pieces together….”

Chezky’s face has now disappeared into the laptop. “Don’t worry,” he mumbles.

But I am worried. Why is it up to me to make sure plans are kept and our home runs smoothly, while all around me people are running on chaos?

I

’m scrolling through my emails the next evening when a subject line catches my eye: Win a Spot in Chaviva Rose’s Newborn Photography School!

My heart skips. Chaviva Rose — celebrity of the frum newborn photography world. Her swaddles, her set designs, her flawless lighting and poses… I’d studied them for years.

I click. The email opens into a glossy graphic: One lucky winner will receive a full scholarship to my new advanced training program, priced at $5,000, including photography technique and business acumen so you can make real money doing newborn photography. The winner will be featured on my page!

I could already picture it: my work showcased for hundreds to see, a name for myself beyond the narrow circle of local moms and their WhatsApp groups. Clients lining up, my rates rising. No office hours. Just me, my camera, and my cinnamon tea sipped leisurely as I edit photos on my own time.

I lean closer, scanning the requirements. To enter, photographers should submit a newborn photo that represents their best work, taken within the past six months. I hadn’t had too many shoots in the past six months, but I scroll through my most recent ones.

Friedman baby… too standard. Halpern baby… maybe… but the mother is super private; she would never give permission.

I give the email another glance. Deadline: six weeks. I’m due in four. Timing can’t be more… critical. I need to find another client.

Then it dawns on me. What could be more perfect than entering with my own newborn? My very own subject, styled impeccably. No cranky siblings, no hovering mothers. I reach for my planner, flipping to my due date and circling it. This is it, Hashem handing me the opportunity I need.

I hear the key turning in the front door, and Chezky walks in.

“Check this out,” I say, turning my screen. He skims the ad for a moment.

“Cool. Right up your alley, you love photography. This is a much better fit for you than accounts receivable. But are you sure about the contest? You’re about to have a baby.” He pauses to think. “Hey, why don’t we just pay for the course to cut down on the pressure? We could dig into our savings, or maybe I could call around the family, see if anyone could contribute—”

“Chezky,” I say, forcing my voice down a notch, “are you talking about the money I have saved for our house?” Of course he thought it was a good idea to use it; he hadn’t been the one slaving and carefully putting away money each month. “And no, it’s okay. I want to win this on my own.”

I press my lips together and scrawl contest photo — new baby! in the margins of my planner.

“It’s a girl!” the doctor announces.

A girl!

But they don’t hand me the baby.

“I want to see my baby!” I say, panic rising. Instead, a nurse comes around to the head of my bed, her face grave.

“What’s wrong?” I grip the sides of the hospital bed so tightly my knuckles turn white. The world seems to tilt sideways as I try to look straight back at the nurse.

“Did they tell you anything on the ultrasound?” she asks. I shake my head, mute with fear.

“It could be missed if the face is turned. Your baby has a cleft lip.”

“A cleft….” The word hangs in the air, both familiar and terrifying. I know what it means — I can picture it in my head — but I’m still unprepared for the sight of my new daughter. Cutting up from her upper lip toward her nose is the cleft. My heart aches with horror at the unexpected defect.

Chezky seems not to notice anything. He’s already whipping out his phone, dialing his parents. I hear his siblings in the background; everyone is whooping as Chezky tells them that we have another baby girl. I flinch.

“How’s the mother and baby doing?” I hear my mother-in-law’s voice.

“Baruch Hashem! There’s a small thing, the baby has a cleft lip. But you should see her! She’s got this tuft of black hair….”

The nurse steps forward and gently lifts the baby from my arms. “We need to run some tests.”

“Chezky,” I whisper, “can you go with her? See where they’re taking the baby?”

When he returns a minute later, he looks strong, steady. “They’re just taking her for some tests,” he says. “The doctor will be here soon. Don’t worry, Atara. A cleft lip is fixable. She’s going to be fine. We’re going to take good care of her.

“SO… she’s beautiful, she really is… but she has a cleft lip.”

“Oh… wow.”

I needed my sister Malka right now. Chezky didn’t get it. He held the little bundle and rocked her and cooed to her like he’d done with Tehila and Eli, as though this baby’s cleft didn’t exist. It was sweet, but it made me want to shout; there was so much this child would need, so much our family would need.

Now, with the baby asleep and Chezky off to daven Minchah and pick up the other kids, I’m clutching my phone to my ear, imagining Malka stirring a soup in her impeccable kitchen — the kind I would have if Chezky would find himself a job.

“Yeah, this changes everything. They are teaching me how to feed her, and there will be lots of appointments. I don’t know how I will find time for everything. I mean, I still have to work—”

“Whoa, wait. Atara. A cleft! Baruch Hashem, it’s something that can be fixed. Did they tell you about the procedures yet?” She pauses. “I can’t believe you’re thinking about work from your hospital bed. Take a breath. Relax a little. It’s not important right now.”

I snort. “Easy for you to say.” Malka is the only one I ever opened up to about Chezky’s job search — or lack thereof.

“Look, Atara, I get it. I also love it when everything fits into neat boxes, and sometimes that’s easier as a stay-at-home mom. But I’ve seen you and Chezky. He really cares about you, I’m sure he’ll figure something out. He’s not going to leave you alone to deal with all the medical stuff and the home and work.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, even though I know she does. Even though part of me recognizes the truth pressing in.

The baby starts to cry, and I end the call and lift her, her warm weight settling against my chest. The tears come quietly, slipping down one by one.

I

t’s been a week since we came home from the hospital, and it hasn’t been hard to avoid the bedroom I use for photography. Between the special feedings and trying to rest, I’m trying to honor Malka’s directive to relax. But there’s also the way my body freezes when I think of pointing my camera lens and recording the baby’s obvious birth defect.

Today, though, I’m determined. The contest deadline is one week away, and Chezky is no closer to finding a job than he was before she was born. He’s spent the last week taking care of Tehila and Eli and making phone calls to find the best doctor for cleft lip repair.

It’s sweet, but it also means it’s up to me. I need to win this contest if we want a roof over our heads.

I set up the beanbag near the window. The light is good… soft, forgiving. I pull out my favorite blush-colored swaddle. My hands feel clumsy as I work. I’m careful not to look too closely at the baby’s face as I wrap her, adjusting folds, smoothing wrinkles.

It’s just a photo, I tell myself. Just light and angles. I position her so the cleft is turned slightly away from the camera. Not hidden, exactly. Just… minimized. I adjust the bonnet, tugging it lower.

My chest feels tight as I lift the camera. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. I peer through the viewfinder, finger hovering over the shutter. For a moment, all I see is what’s wrong, what can’t be fixed with a click or a layer or a careful crop. My hands tremble. I lower the camera.

The baby shifts, her mouth puckering before she lets out a small, indignant sound. Her face scrunches, cleft and all, impossibly expressive.

I freeze. This is her. Unedited. Unposed.

I’m overcome. Cleft or no cleft, my baby needs me. I lower my camera, but Rivka calms down after that one howl. My baby. I raise the camera and click away.

T

he doorbell rings just as I ease Rivka back into her bassinet. I pad over and open it, finding Daniella standing there, cheeks flushed from the cold, scrubs peeking out beneath her coat. She balances a foil pan in one hand, purse dangling from the other.

“Hi!” she says, a little breathless. “I’m so sorry, it’s not much. I’d planned on making broccoli soup, but I ended up not having time. So, quesadillas.” She holds up the foil pan with an apologetic smile. “They’re warm, though. And the kids love them, right?”

I force a smile. “Right. Thanks. Really. I appreciate it.”

Rivka lets out a wail just then. “Oh no, can you just place the pan on my milchig counter?”

“Sure! And maybe I’ll get a quick glance at the little princess before I run!” Daniella says. She’s not asking. I want to shout, “No!” — none of the neighbors have seen Rivka yet — but I catch the words in my throat.

The baby needs a diaper change, and I find myself bumping into Daniella as she exits my kitchen.

“She’s got a cleft lip,” I say, commanding my voice to stay even and nonchalant.

Daniella peeks into the bundle in my arms. “She’s precious. Looks like Tehila!” She pauses a moment and continues, “When I did my internship in pediatrics, I ran into a few babies with cleft lips.”

I don’t say anything.

“The surgeries are pretty straightforward,” Daniella continues, “but I remember the strain the parents felt with all the visits to plastic surgeons and feeding specialists.” She lets out a sigh, momentarily lost in thought. “Maybe there’s something more I could do to help, even with my crazy work hours? Just let me know.” She glances at her phone. “Oh no! I’ve gotta run. But I’ll be in touch. Really!” With a wave, she is gone, coat flapping as she hurries to her car.

Right. As though I’d ask Daniella.

One diaper change, one clumsy feed with the special-shaped bottle I received in the hospital, and one sleeping baby later, I’m in the kitchen, ready to eat.

Quesadillas. The whole point of a meal train is to give the new mother something nourishing, hearty — real food that makes you feel taken care of. Not tortillas and cheese. I peel back the foil. Eight triangles. Enough for the kids, maybe.

Tears escape my eyes. I sink into a chair, resting my elbows on the table, the quesadillas staring back at me like a joke. Daniella is a good person, but how could she think this was enough? She rushed from work to work, from shift to shift, always apologizing, always too busy. Wasn’t family — community — supposed to come first?

T

he feeding clinic smells faintly of disinfectant and coffee. I shift Rivka higher against my shoulder, for a moment wishing I had let Chezky come with me instead of insisting he get back to his job search. He’s been so good about everything to do with Rivka, keeping tabs on appointments and taking over the cumbersome feeds with the special bottle. I hope to get more feeding tips today so it will go smoother, instead of milk constantly cascading down her chin.

She’s fussing, her little lips parting in that way that makes my heart sink; it would be another few months and more than one surgery until the cleft is fully repaired. The feeding specialist is running late. I settle into the chair, open my phone, and scroll to the folder labeled Rivka. I’d uploaded them last night and started editing in hopes of finding something workable.

My breath catches. There she is: swaddled in the knit blanket with a matching bonnet, soft backdrop glowing behind her. My lighting had been exact. But no matter how I’d angled my lens, no matter how many poses I tried, the cleft peeked through, jutting all the way up to her nose.

I swipe, one picture after the next. Some I’d edited, smoothing away the line, the gap, the flaw. Those look fine. And yet… flat. I can’t submit them. I can envision the murmurs of “Nebach” and “She needed to photoshop her baby’s lip.” There’s no way these would win a contest.

The ones I didn’t touch — the ones where her mouth tilted open, imperfect and real — those pull at me with an annoying mix of longing and awe. But I can’t submit those either; what chance did a glaring imperfection like a cleft lip have against the dozens of polished entries?

Maybe I should give up and use an old picture? Start calling clients at this late stage, asking for permission? But I’m not even sure I have one worthy of a contest like this. I’m good, but this is for Chaviva Rose!

The door opens, and the feeding specialist, Barbara, walks in. She’s in her fifties and has curly gray hair. She pauses as she sets down Rivka’s chart, looking over at my phone.

“Oh, those are beautiful,” she exclaims.

I stiffen and hold the phone closer to me. “I’m… a newborn photographer,” I say, a little too fast. “Or, at least, I try to be. These are my baby’s pictures.”

“Can I see?”

I don’t have a choice now. I hand her my phone.

“You have a real gift,” Barbara says. “Look how gentle she looks in your photos. And look at this one….” She’s stopped on my favorite of all the pictures, an unedited one. “Some parents just want to hide their babies, but this picture embraces the imperfection… it pulls at your heartstrings.”

She hands me back my phone, and something inside me cracks. Before I can stop myself, everything tumbles out. “Perfection, beauty — these are so important to me. Sometimes I think this”—I gesture helplessly at Rivka—“is a sign.” I feel a lump in my throat and can’t continue.

Barbara says nothing, just arranges some charts and syringes on the counter. Great. What have I done now, spilling my guts to an absolute stranger? I feel heat rising to my cheeks.

Barbara brings a syringe of formula to Rivka’s lip. “You know what I see when I look at those photos?” She pauses and looks at me. “I see a mother who knows how to capture beauty, even when life doesn’t look like a magazine cover. You see beauty in places other people don’t.”

I

’ve taken a moment to enjoy a tea in the kitchen, but my phone is in my hand and I’m scrolling. Today is the last day to submit to the contest; I need to decide what to do.

The front door turns, and Chezky comes in from his morning chavrusa. He grabs a muffin off the counter, and I wait for him to take out his laptop. Instead, he reaches into the cabinet and pulls out a frying pan. Accusations start pulsing through my head. An elaborate meal, now?

You see beauty in places other people don’t, Barbara’s voice intrudes on my inner diatribe.

I look over at Chezky at the stove and remember how I’d wished I had my camera on me yesterday as he cooed and cuddled with Rivka, loving her just as she is, because love is sometimes messy and doesn’t follow perfect rules and plans.

“Scrambled eggs for the new mother?” Chezky’s voice cuts through my haze.

“Eggs? Oh, um… are you sure?”

“Of course! You have so much going on, the least I can do is provide a nourishing meal.”

Something in my chest loosens. Maybe things hadn’t gone according to my plan, but I didn’t have to face it alone. I smile back, suddenly grateful for this quiet moment with my husband that isn’t about job searches or deadlines.

From the kitchen window, I catch a glimpse of Daniella running to her car, a paper flying out of her purse into the wind, her phone glued to her ear. Her husband runs out and gives her a wrapped sandwich, and they take a moment to pause and exchange smiles despite the moment’s urgency.

Little, imperfect, beautiful moments, I think.

Rivka’s thin wail reaches my ears from the other room. Ten minutes later, she’s calm in my arms and I’m scrolling through the pictures again. There’s the photo I love, the one Barbara commented on. She’s right; it has a distinctiveness all its own. Rivka’s natural delicateness remains unmarred by her cleft lip.

Can I submit it? I scroll through the others — photoshopped, ostensibly perfect. But something is holding me back. There’s something even more perfect about the unedited one, something real.

Chezky makes an appearance, letting me know that breakfast is ready. “Everything okay? Need help feeding her?”

“Umm, yeah, just—” I suck in my breath and hold up my phone. “What do you think about this picture? For the contest? Any chance it could win?”

Chezky doesn’t even hesitate. “That’s the one I’d vote for, any day. Showcases your heart, not just your skill. If Chaviva Rose is as good as you say, she’ll see it.”

My thumb hovers only a second before I send it to the contest submission email. It isn’t the picture I had planned. But somehow, I know it’s perfect.

I look at Chezky as I stand and walk to the kitchen. In my ideal world, he’d be out now, bringing home a paycheck. He’s not perfect, either. But that’s okay.

I exhale, shaky but sure, and sit with my husband.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 978)