I looked at Shevy and chose my words carefully. “I know you’re disappointed,” I said slowly. “That’s— I get it"

Mina

"Could we talk about my gown?” Shevy asked.

I didn’t want to talk about her gown. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about anything. My head was throbbing and my sinuses were acting up. I wanted to eat my soup, take a long, hot shower, and climb into bed.

But the croutons in my soup were soggy. And Shevy was looking at me expectantly.

I put down my spoon. “Your gown. Yes.”

She reached for a pile of napkins and started folding them into triangles. “So I thought about everything you told me. You know, your decision to, um, not get a gown from Yocheved.”

I tensed. Not this, not now. I couldn’t handle Shevy guilting me over what I’d done, speaking out against Yocheved like that. I could kick myself for being so impulsive. What a mistake.

But… no, it wasn’t a mistake. I’d done the right thing; I’d say the same things all over again. I gave it because this is what sisters do for each other, Yocheved’s voice played back in my mind. Not because she wanted to give it. Because this is what sisters did. Because this made her look pretty in society.

I looked at Shevy and chose my words carefully. “I know you’re disappointed,” I said slowly. “That’s— I get it. I know it’s hard to see the greater picture, especially after we’d started working on the design.”

Shevy added a napkin to the triangle pile and shook her head. “I do get it,” she said quietly.

I squinted.

“And don’t feel bad about it. I’m good, really.”

The throbbing in my head halted. I stared at her, watched her fold a napkin and slide her thumb across the fold, pressing down.

“It’s the right thing,” she continued. “Whatever you told me is true. It contradicts who we are, the way you raised me, and I don’t want that. And besides I… I feel it’s the right thing to do. You know, for Tzirel…”

My eyes watered. I blinked, a smile spreading over my face. I gazed at Shevy, reached for a napkin from her pile.

Warmth spread in my chest as I dabbed at my eyes. All my fantasies, walking my daughter down to the chuppah on the wings of beauty — of fine lace and sweeping tulle — dissolved, faded from my vision, and in its place a new picture arose. Of a daughter I’d nurtured, prayed for, and worried over, who’d blossomed into a beautiful person, a heart that was soft and alive and glowing.

My soup was cold, a mush of bloated croutons resting on the surface. I stuck my spoon into the bowl and brought it to my lips.

It tasted delicious.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 668)