A click in my brain; Mina. Mina had only said what she knew, and that meant Yocheved didn’t know, she was confused.

For a dazzling moment, I saw my salvation dangling before my eyes. Mina had no idea that I’d sewn this gown for Dratler, and Yocheved had no way of knowing it either, she probably didn’t even know that this gown was worn by Dratler. Unless Mina had told her? It didn’t seem so, from her words.

“Y-yes,” I mumbled.

“Yes what? You only did alterations? But the design — it was exactly the same as the gown I’d drawn for the Dratler kallah. Do you remember that sketch? Mina wasn’t involved, but didn’t you sit with me when I did it?”

No, I wanted to scream. No, none of this ever happened, it’s all a bad dream, I didn’t do anything, I don’t remember that sketch, I see so many sketches at work, give me back my job and I’ll be a good girl, I’ll never cause any trouble again.

But I couldn’t lie. I’d had enough of all these pretenses; I was sick of all this discreet business. My job was over, there was nothing left but to say the truth, admit what I’d done. And anyhow, even if I denied it now, Yocheved would eventually find out that I’d lied, and then things would be way worse. My name would be tarnished, nobody would ever trust me again.

“Mina’s right,” I said quietly. “I only did alterations. For her.” I paused for a moment. “But she doesn’t know, I never told her… I sewed this gown for Dratler.”

***

Mina

I loved sheva brachos.

Unlike the wedding, which evoked a hodge-podge of emotions, plus the pressure of everything falling into place, sheva brachos were pure joy. Everyone was relaxed, enjoying the treat of being wined and dined.

Wednesday night’s sheva brachos was hosted by Tiferes Yitzchok, Shlomo’s yeshivah, and was held in the yeshivah’s lunchroom.

As I was hanging up my coat, I met Chesky. My brother planted his hands on my son Menashe’s shoulders and whistled. “He’s 21, Mina, just ask.”

I gawked. “He turned 21 last week, Chesky, and please, I made a wedding three days ago, can you give me a chance to breathe?”

I threaded my scarf through my coat sleeve and reached for a hanger. Menashe walked off. Chesky stared after my son’s back, his eyes gleaming.

“I’m serious, Mina, I have a fantastic idea. It’s like, perfect. Actually… you know the girl.”

That got me. “I know her?”

He grinned. “You definitely know her mother.”

I scrunched my forehead. “I’m not listening.”

“But you want to know the name.”

“I do not.”

“Fine, I’m not saying.”

“Tell me.”

He winked. “Malkie Gordon.”

“What? Raizy’s daughter?”

“Uh-huh.”

Malkie Gordon. She was a sweetheart of a girl, I’d always loved her. Charming personality, sterling middos, fun and witty and tochendik. For a bizarre moment, I pictured Menashe together with Raizy’s daughter, then shook my head. Lovely girl, amazing mother, but we knew each other too well to become mechutanim.

“Nice try, brother.”

“Because they won’t follow the takanos plan,” he grumbled. “Right?”

“Stop that.”

He chuckled. “Just teasing.”

I glared and walked away.

The sheva brachos was beautiful. The food was simple, heimishe fare, but I had a great time schmoozing with the other maggidei shiurim’s wives. The rosh yeshivah spoke, and two bochurim sang hilarious grammen.

So what if Yocheved was absent? I’d invited my sisters with a no-obligation disclaimer. I understood that they couldn’t leave their houses every night. And Gila also didn’t come, so it really didn’t have to mean anything.

Still. Yocheved had only come into the boutique once since her meeting with Mrs. Davidowitz, and had avoided me the entire time. It was frustrating, knowing I’d hurt her but not really understanding why. We’d have to talk, clear the air. After sheva brachos…

I was waiting for Shlomo outside the building when Feivel Rubinstein, who also worked for the yeshivah, approached me.

“Mrs. Genuth,” he started. “First, mazel tov, such a beautiful simchah, you should have lots of nachas.”

“Amen, thanks.”

I glanced at my watch. The air was misty, my sheitel was going to frizz. What was taking Shlomo so long?

Mr. Rubinstein coughed. “I wanted to tell you… I’ve been thinking about your suggestion, to offer alternative takanos packages, and I decided you’re right. First for the reason you said, to offer relief to people who really need it but their mechutanim won’t cooperate, but also, to prevent people who can afford to marry off in style to sign up for the plan because of pressure from their mechutanim. I’m afraid they’ll end up cheating the system.”

I nodded, not sure if I appreciated his reasoning, but glad of his decision regardless.

Rubinstein adjusted his hat. “If someone takes our loan and secretly spends above the budget, it’s mamash geneivah and defeats the whole purpose of the takanos plan. If people are doing this, I need to know about it. They’re not entitled to the fund money.”

I shivered. Davidowitz — he was talking about Davidowitz.

And I completely agreed, they were wrong. They were spending a quarter of the loan amount on the kallah’s gown. They were going to make a wedding on a grand scale. Because they wouldn’t stop at the gown. They didn’t have the courage.

Rubinstein was waiting for me to respond. I had to tell him.

But then I thought about Yocheved. If I reported Davidowitz, Yocheved would lose a customer.

And then I realized something. It wasn’t my responsibility.

You can lead a horse to the water, but you can’t tell her what gown to wear.

It was an intoxicating feeling, liberation. I couldn’t fix the world — and I didn’t have to.

“You understand my point?” Rubinstein asked.

I nodded. “Yes, I understand,” I said. “But honestly, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 685)