Dovid

WE

aren’t going to get this money back. My mother had said as much.

“A gift for Dassie, from you,” my mother had called it, but I’m not ready to tell that to Miri.

Miri’s savvy, so I’m actually kind of surprised that she hadn’t noticed anything. But I’m grateful, too.

Miri grew up in a different kind of home from mine. Her parents own a really tiny house. I think it was their starter house, and then they saw no reason to upgrade. They hardly spend any money — their idea of a great Chol Hamoed trip is a hike at Bear Mountain or Harriman State Park. They don’t do designer anything, and they buy their Yom Tov meat on sale and then stick it in the freezer until it’s time to cook. And they’re proud of their frugality.

My parents would cringe. At one time, I probably would have, too, but I’ve seen and heard things I wish I hadn’t.

Like credit card bills for amounts that are embarrassing to share.

Like when I heard my father tell my mother he bought a house in Monsey because it was going to be great for all of us to be together for summer weekends. “There’s a pool,” he told my mother. She just smiled, but I saw the flash of fear in her eyes and the fatigue in the way she set her shoulders.

Like the time I heard my mother ask my older sister, Suri, for ten thousand dollars. I was sure Suri would tell her no because she and her husband, Yitz, don’t have a lot of money, but she didn’t. And it’s not just Suri giving them money — I know my brothers do, too.

Miri doesn’t know any of this. Growing up the way she did, fiscal responsibility is baked into her bones. She can’t imagine anyone living like that. I know I don’t want to live the way my parents do, and I think I can break out of this pattern, especially now that I’ve landed a good job at a nice law firm.

But now, I call my mother back and tell her I can cover Dassie’s deposit. I hear the relief in her long exhale, and she seems calmer. I think that maybe this is a good time to tell her that I can’t dip into our savings again.

“Ma,” I start to say, but she interrupts me before I can tell her our apartment is too small, and we’re trying to save enough for a down payment.

“It’s not just the deposit for Dassie,” she says, and then pauses. “Do you think you could cover the mortgage for the Monsey house this month?”

I feel a tightening in my back, in my stomach, in my throat. I want to ask my mother to tell me what’s going on, but I kind of know what’s going on. I’ve seen it my entire life.

Miri is going to be really upset when she finds out, but this is a one-time thing. It’s just now and then I won’t do this again.

“Okay, Ma,” I say, and log into our bank account.

Faye

 I used to ask Moish where he was getting all the money he was spending. He has a plumbing supply company, and while I know you can do well selling almost anything, I didn’t think Moish was earning enough to cover everything he was buying. Years ago, I’d note the purchases — cars, vacations, jewelry for me, expensive toys for the kids — and chalk them up to his huge, generous heart.  He works hard, I’d tell myself. He wouldn’t spend what he doesn’t have, especially after putting in so much effort to make that money.

But I’m a responsible person and I know my way around a bank statement, and eventually I discovered that my misgivings weren’t based on nothing. My husband, Moish, the big guy with the big laugh and the huge generous heart, is also fearless to the point of irresponsibility. He isn’t afraid to spend money he doesn’t have.

I used to try to talk to him about it.

“Moish, that’s a lot of money,” I’d say. “Are you sure we should do this?” I’d hate the way my voice was when I asked him, hated the way it sounded unsure and questioning, but mostly hated the way my caution clashed with his ease.

“What are you so worried about, Faye?” he’d say. He’d grab an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and take a big bite, or grab some crackers and munch on those. He always punctuated his conversations with a bite of something crunchy.

“Are you sure we have the money?” I’d ask this because I knew we didn’t, but I was afraid to say anything outright. He’d flick the air with his hand as if he were swatting away a fly or a minor annoyance, and I wondered if he knew something I didn’t. Then I’d decide to hang my worries on that thought. He probably had some big job coming in, I’d think.

But still, every time I checked our statements, nothing had changed.

“What about savings?” I asked him once. “How will we ever have enough to retire?” No one could say I never thought about our future. Some days, it was all I thought about.

“Savings? Who can save or retire when you’re living a frum life? We have to live, Faye.”

Eventually, I gave up. What were my options, anyway? Moish was the primary breadwinner. He controlled our finances. It wasn’t as though I could shut him out of our accounts or put my foot down. Moish was the dominant personality, and wasn’t this what they meant when they said to be an ishah kesheirah?

And — I’m ashamed to say — part of me also loved his generosity, even when his generosity played with fire.

So when he started signing up for multiple credit cards, I looked away. Even when those credit cards had my name on them, I didn’t say anything. I was quiet every time he got a newer, bigger car. And I was quiet when he bought the second home upstate.

But I always knew what was going on. I knew that our finances were a house of cards that could collapse in the lightest of breezes.

What would Moish do when that happened?

Well, we were teetering now. I saw the notices we got in the mail. First, it was the car. Then the Monsey house. When I showed them to Moish, he swatted the air the same way as usual, but I worried.

“Hashem will take care of us,” Moish said, brushing the pile of mail aside. “He always does.”

I had a lot to say about bashert and hishtadlus, but a man like Moish wouldn’t listen to that kind of thing. A man who had acted this way for years wasn’t going to change.

We were close to having nothing and losing everything. As much as I hated the idea, I turned to Suri, then to Chaim and Tzvi.

At first, it was only a little bit here and there. And it was hard to ask them. It felt like a reversal of the natural order of things. But part of the reason we were in this position now was because of the kids. Moish had wanted to give them a nice childhood, and he bought the second home so we could spend more time together. Moish had always wanted the best for them, so was it so bad to ask them to help us now, when things were rough?

But it was always the older ones I asked — never Dovid. First, because he was in yeshivah. He had no money. And then he married Miri. You can’t ask your son for money when he has a wife like Miri.

Practical. Sensible. Responsible.

They’ve been married four years, but I don’t think she’s bought herself a new wig since their wedding. She doesn’t dress like us — she wouldn’t know a designer dress if she held it in her hands, and she doesn’t want to. I know she wants to get out of that basement, and she’s doing everything she can to make that happen.

So when I asked Dovid to cover the seminary deposit and the mortgage for the Monsey house, I thought of Miri’s reaction. I didn’t want to ask, but there was no way Suri had anything extra right now, and Chaim and Tzvi were also tight. There was no choice.  I felt awful about it, but Dovid and Miri are young. I suspect they have some money put away — Miri’s doing. They can earn it back. They have time on their side.

That’s something we don’t have. And when I weigh what this will cost Dovid and Miri, all I can think is that it’s a lot less than financial ruin.

Because that’s what we’re facing now.

Miri

I’m doing my best to stay calm. Dovid is standing across the room, leaning against the counter. I’m sitting on the couch, looking at him, and trying not to pick at my nails. His supper sits untouched on the table where I left it for him.

I’m trying to process that he took over fifteen thousand dollars out of our joint account.

He paid Dassie’s deposit for seminary.

He took care of the mortgage payment for his parents’ house in Monsey.

I can’t stop thinking about how long it took to put that money away. Dovid only just started working, so those savings are because of me. I started with babysitting money, and then tips from when I was a counselor in camp. Now, every month, I take a portion of my earnings and put it away, hard as it is with two kids. My wigs don’t look great, we need bedroom furniture for the kids, and I would really love to get away for a few days with Dovid, but every time I think about it, I tell myself how much it would set us back. I want to get out of this basement more than I want any of those things.

I know I put this money away for our family, but I can’t help feeling that Dovid took something that was mine.

“You should have asked me about the mortgage.” I aim for a gentle tone because we’re talking about his parents.

He sighs. I know he feels bad but doesn’t know how to tell me.

“I assume we’ll have it back as soon as your parents take care of whatever is going on,” I tell him.

Of course, I expect him to say, but he doesn’t. He just stands there quietly at the counter, fiddling with a plastic fork. His silence is a cold hand, giving me a shiver of worry.

“Say something.”

“Miri,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I don’t think we’re getting that money back.”

He suddenly looks very far away as the room seems to expand, and I feel like I’m shrinking into a drop of nothing. My brain has stopped working. All I can hear are the words I don’t think we’re getting that money back. “Why not?”

“You didn’t notice anything?” he asks. “We’re married four years, and you didn’t notice anything odd about the way my parents handle money?”

I’m quiet as I try to understand what he’s asking. I know my father-in-law spends a lot, especially when I compare how my in-laws live to the way my parents do. I always found it a bit shocking, but all families are different. I never asked Dovid about it. I just assumed that if they spend, it’s because they have. But Dovid is looking at me, waiting for an answer.

“They’re definitely big spenders,” I say.

“Yes,” he agrees. “But they don’t have that kind of money.”

“So how do they do it?” I ask him, dread mixing with curiosity.

“Years ago, my father was able to cover a lot of it with what he brought in from his business,” Dovid tells me. “But it was never enough. So he did what a lot of people do. He took a line of credit on the house. He played around with credit cards.”

Credit cards.

I remember how, right after we got married, my father-in-law asked me if I had any credit cards. It felt like an odd question. Just one, I had told him. We were over for supper, and Dovid and I were standing at the door, saying our goodbyes.

“What’s your social security number?” my father-in-law had asked me, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

I remember Dovid had seemed on edge when his father asked me this question. “Not now,” he told his father. “We need to get home.”

We really didn’t, but when we got home, Dovid went into the small spare bedroom and shut the door. I could hear talking, and he sounded upset. I heard him say words like don’t and not her and we aren’t going to do that.

When he came out, I asked him about it, but he told me it was nothing I needed to worry about.

But now, that incident is starting to make sense.

I think about other things I noticed, but didn’t dwell on. Like the way Dovid used to get uptight when credit card bills would come. He’d check over every item and ask me about each one. After he realized how careful I was, he stopped getting nervous every statement.

Dovid never wants to talk about his father’s new cars, and never shares his excitement. Come to think of it, he wasn’t all that happy when his parents bought the house in Monsey. He told his father that he would be happy to get together with the family in their house. “We don’t have to go upstate to enjoy family time.”

I don’t know why it took me this long to piece this together.

Maybe if I’d noticed sooner, I wouldn’t have lost 15 thousand dollars.

Then something else occurs to me.

“Does this mean they’re going to ask us for money again?” I ask Dovid.

He sighs. “I hope not. From what I remember, this happens sometimes when they pull up short. But they’re always able to figure it out in the end.”

“So why won’t they be able to give us the money back?”

“I’m not sure, but my mother called it a gift,” Dovid says. “I think that means it’s a one-way thing.”

So he’s afraid to ask her. “Just ask her,” I tell him. “It isn’t crazy to bring it up.”

He shakes his head.

“Look, Miri,” he says. “I just can’t do this to my parents. They needed some help, and I gave it to them. I know you’ve worked so hard to put all this money away, and now that I have a good job, I’m going to help make our savings grow. In no time, we’ll have this back.”

I feel a sense of relief. He’s right. With his salary, we should be able to put the money back pretty soon. But I still feel cold worry weighing on me. If I understand my in-laws’ lifestyle correctly, this is a pattern and it isn’t going to stop.

“Dovid.” I aim for calm. “What if they ask you again?”

He stops fiddling with that fork and puts it on the counter.

“I’m going to say that we just can’t,” he tells me.

Dovid

 MY parents sure know how to arrange a great simchah. We’re in the party room of the best new steakhouse in town. Waiters are passing around hors d’oeuvres and asking the guests what kind of mixed drinks they want.

I feel a small curl of worry. I hope they paid for this in advance.

I spot Suri at the mechitzah and make my way toward her. “How are you post-wedding?”

“It’s good to be on the other side,” she says.

She looks happy. I really shouldn’t bring this up now, but I can’t help it. There’s nothing like siblings who can understand things, having grown up in the same home as you, with the same parents and similar experiences.

“Suri, I’m really sorry to bring this up now, but I’ve got to talk to you about this. Mommy asked me to cover Dassie’s sem deposit and their Monsey mortgage.”

She looks at me, and then at the orchids on each table. “They finally asked,” she says ruefully. “They usually ask me — the oldest — but I guess with the wedding, they felt they couldn’t. I’m not sure why they didn’t ask Chaim or Tzvi.”

“I know they ask you,” I tell her. “I’ve overheard those conversations. I don’t know how you do it.”

She sighs. “The truth is, I don’t know either,” she says, “But I feel like there’s no choice. I can’t just let them sink. The first time she asked, it was awful. Mommy was at one of those groceries with rock-bottom prices and her credit card was declined. All her credit cards were declined, she told me when she called. She asked if I could give them my credit card over the phone. Of course, I gave it to her. What else could I do?”

I understand her completely. It was why I gave my mother the money. “I know, but I’m not going to do this again. It was a one-time thing.”

“That’s what you think,” Suri says. “That’s what you’re telling yourself now, but just you wait. You won’t be able to say no next time. I certainly wasn’t.” She stops for a second and blinks, as if she has something stuck in her eye.

“No,” I say. “I really won’t do it again.”

She shrugs but doesn’t argue with me. “It’s such a dilemma,” she says. “On one hand, these are our parents, but on the other hand, don’t we have an obligation to our own families?”

We’re both silent, brooding at the mechitzah. Then something occurs to me.

“How were you able to pull off such a nice wedding?” I ask her.

She smiles a small, sad smile.

“I never realized how many gemachs there are,” she tells me. “Toby was able to have a wedding as nice as any of her classmates. And the gemachs even helped me set up an apartment for her with a fully stocked kitchen. One way or another, it all works out in the end. I guess this is my sechar for helping Tatty and Mommy and not saying what I really think.”

I hear my father calling all the guests to wash. I head to my seat, thinking about what Suri told me.  I can’t imagine myself and Miri rescuing my parents the way she did.

But I understand her. I also feel so sorry for my mother.

Faye

I have to say, this sheva brachos is a fabulous party. The young couple looks happy, the guests are talking and laughing, and everyone loved Moish’s speech. He always manages to get the audience going.

I’m not sure how he’s planning to pay for this.

“I really hate asking the kids,” I’d told him just yesterday.

“What’s the big deal?” he had asked. “We’re one family — one pocket.”

“We aren’t going to ask our kids to pay for a sheva brachos we’re supposedly hosting,” I had said.  I hoped I sounded firm.

“You worry too much, Faye,” he had told me. “Don’t worry. It will be fine.”

I don’t feel reassured. I know Moish too well.

After bentshing, I start to say my goodbyes to our guests. On the other side of the mechitzah, I notice the maître d’ approach Moish and whisper to him. He holds a small leather folder — the kind they bring to the table after a meal is over. I see him nod his head. Then, Moish walks the guy over to Dovid.

No. I hope he doesn’t do what I think he’s about to do.

Moish puts his arm around Dovid’s shoulders and gestures to the folder the maître d’ is holding.

“What’s this?” Dovid asks.

Moish says a few words and gives one of his great, big laughs. I see the look on Dovid’s face. His brow is creased, and he glances over to the women. First, I think he’s looking for me, and I feel worse. I had made him a promise. But his eyes slide over me. He’s looking for Miri, I realize.

But she isn’t in the room anymore. She’s probably waiting for him outside. I see Dovid start to shake his head, and Moish puts his hand on Dovid’s arm.

“You’ll have it back by next week,” he says lightly, and laughs again.

Dovid reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet.

Dovid

I don’t know why I believed him.

It’s the week after sheva brachos, and I’m at my parents’ house with Shua and Nomi. We’re here for the weekly Friday kugel and to wish my parents a good Shabbos.

My father is in the big chair by the window in the family room while he feeds Mimi some kugel.

I feel uncomfortable asking him, but I’d promised Miri the first time was also the last time, and I don’t want her finding out I’d put the sheva brachos on our credit card.

“Hey, Ta,” I say, aiming for a casual tone. “Do you think you could Zelle me the money? I’m going to need to pay the credit card.”

At first, I don’t think he hears me. He’s still busy with Mimi and the kugel. But then, he turns toward me.

“Dovid, go into my study, please,” he says. “There’s a small box on the desk. Bring it here.”

I assume there’s a checkbook in the box. As I leave the kitchen, I glance at my mother, but she’s busy preparing chicken for the Friday night meal.

In the study, the blinds are closed, and the room is a mess. There are folders on the floor and papers strewn on the desk. I flip the light on and walk to the desk to find the box my father mentioned.

My father has a huge desk, so I really have to search for the box. It could have been on the part of the desk where he keeps his papers, or it could have been on the return where he has his computer. I start with the first part — the one with the papers.

I’m not looking for anything other than the box, but my eye catches mortgage statements and credit card bills. It’s almost as if my father left them in piles for me to find.

I pick up one paper.

It’s a warning letter from the bank regarding a late mortgage payment for the house in Monsey. It’s dated yesterday. I look at the paper under it. Another letter about a late mortgage payment. Under that, a letter about a line of credit taken out against their primary home, and a late notice as well. There are late credit card bills and bank statements where the balance is twenty-seven dollars.

I thought I’d taken care of their mortgage, I thought it was just this month where they needed help covering it, but I see that they haven’t kept up for months. I realize this mortgage is only part of their problem. I can’t begin to process the dollar amounts charged to the credit cards and the account balance at the bank.

They are in real trouble — worse than I ever imagined. I don’t know how they’re managing to pay for anything. They’re drowning.

I’m angry at them for allowing themselves to get to this place. Even as a kid I sensed their irresponsibility, and I always promised I’d never be like them. And I’m not. Or — I should say — we’re not. One of the things I liked so much about Miri was her attitude toward money.

But I’m really worried about my parents. As their son, I somehow feel that it’s my job to protect them. They raised me. They gave me everything I needed when I was growing up, even if that gives me mixed feelings now. But they tried. And they did their best.

I’m afraid for my parents, and I think they’re afraid, too. What kind of son would I be if I just ignored what I saw?

If I were a braver man, I’d ask my parents some hard questions. I’d ask why they need a house in Monsey when they have a perfectly good one right here. I’d ask why they made that kind of sheva brachos, or any sheva brachos. I’d even ask if Dassie really needs to go to seminary.

But I don’t.

Instead, all I can think is that I must help them. There’s no way I can ask for any money from them now.

Before I leave, I Zelle them some money just to help them until they can straighten things out. I’m dipping into savings again, but we’ll still be able to pay the bills.

I just have to find a way to explain this to Miri.

Miri

I’ve never been to this bank before. We use the one where my parents took me to open my account, and that’s where Dovid and I opened our joint account after we got married. I don’t have that first account anymore. I closed it and transferred all my savings to our joint account. A life together is better, I had thought.

And it was, until my in-laws started pressuring Dovid.

I’m worried. This past week, Dovid withdrew close to 30 thousand dollars. Maybe for some people, that’s a laughable sum — an amount they can easily make back with just a week or two of work. But it took me a long time to put that money away. I can cry just thinking about it. Even worse is that Dovid didn’t ask me. This isn’t like him, and that also worries me. I know we need to talk, but I’m afraid that even more money will disappear before I have a chance. I’m starting to think of these withdrawals Dovid made as gateway withdrawals — relatively small withdrawals that will precede larger, more damaging ones, and then even more damaging financial decisions.

I’m sitting here in this new bank, waiting for my turn. In my hand, I hold a check for almost all the money we have in our joint account. I feel like a traitor, taking money out of our joint account without discussing it first with Dovid. But how can I be a traitor if I’m doing this to help us?

I got a feeling that something was going on when Dovid came home with the kids on Friday afternoon. He brushed me off when I asked him if he got the money back from his parents, but I pressed, and he admitted that there was no way his parents could pay us back now.

“Miri, I saw their bank statement. There’s nothing in there.”

I could understand his distress. For a minute, I almost wavered and thought about helping them, but then, logic got the better of me. They have assets they could sell. Besides, my immediate family is my primary concern. The more pressing issue was that he spent a large amount of money without consulting me first. The thought of it makes me so angry. My shoulders ache from the tension of my anger and my stomach feels hollowed out with worry.

“You know how hard I worked for that money,” I had told him, tone level but forceful. “That was years of me being careful. That should not go to pay for your parents’ irresponsibility. You can’t do this anymore. Promise me.”

He glanced at me, and then his eyes slid away.

“You’re right,” he said in a small voice.

I wanted to believe that was the last of it. I almost did, but something niggled at me. Motzaei Shabbos, I checked our bank account and saw that Dovid had transferred money to his parents on Friday.

I’m going to have to stop this.

That’s why I’m in the bank now. I plan to open a separate account and transfer our savings here. I know this won’t solve everything. A separate bank account won’t stop Dovid from sending money from his wages to his parents. But this feels like a place where I can at least separate the money that I’ve saved.

Dovid

I’m at home when I discover what Miri did. I log into our account to see if my work check had cleared when I notice the numbers don’t add up. Scrolling through the history, I see that Miri had withdrawn a huge sum of money — in fact, almost everything we had in the account.

How could she, especially now, when things are so difficult with my parents? She’s sitting across the room, reading on the couch. I wonder how she spent the money, and I think how unlike her it is to spend so suddenly and freely.

“Miri? I’m looking at our account now, and there was a large withdrawal earlier today.”

“Yes,” she says, glancing up. Her eyes slide back down to her book.

“Can I ask what you used it for?”

She clears her throat. “I took money out, but I didn’t spend it.”

I’m not wrong when I think it’s out of character for her to spend this large a sum. “So what did you do with it?”

“I put it in another bank account.” This time, she looks at me and holds my gaze.

“You did what?” I hear the words and understand them, but my brain is playing catch-up, trying to decide what that means.

“You can’t do that,” I sputter. “You need to ask me before you do such a thing.”

She looks at me, her gaze level, but I know her, and I see the anger simmering below the surface. My brain has finally caught up, and I know what she’s going to say.

“How could you even say that, Dovid, after what you did over the past week? You withdrew money — money that I put away — without asking me! And you promised me you wouldn’t do it again, and you did. So I think I can withdraw money that I worked hard to save.”

She’s still holding the book she was reading, and her fingernails are white where she’s gripping it tightly. I’m in an impossible place. The last thing I want is for Miri to be this upset, but I’m also so worried about my parents. “I can’t just let my parents sink. What kind of son would I be if I didn’t help them?”

“What about us?” she says. “We’re going to sink, too, if you keep depleting our savings. You need to help us get the things we need, and if you keep giving your parents money, we won’t be able to have them.”

I’m quiet as I think about what she says. I know she’s right about our savings, but the pull to protect my parents is strong.

“But they’re my parents,” I say weakly.

“I know,” she tells me. “But they won’t sink, Dovid. They own two homes. They can bail themselves out, but not if you keep rescuing them. You have to take a step back.”

I go to the window and look out. It’s a misty night, and the fog creates a halo around the street lamp. I think about what she says, about taking a step back from my parents’ problems, about letting them save themselves. It would require a conversation with my siblings. Maybe they would agree and maybe they wouldn’t. But even if they didn’t, I could still take a step back. After all, I was never comfortable with my parents’ spending habits. Miri’s financial caution is one of the things that drew me to her. Would it be so hard to focus on that feeling now? Couldn’t I use that feeling to shut out the pressure I feel from my parents, ignore their hints and maybe even tell them no outright? Of course, I could.

I lean my head against the window and feel the cold pane against my forehead. The other option is protecting my parents, being there for them the way they were for me. But that option comes with Miri’s anger and resentment. I can see the future unwind before me, see that every conversation with Miri would be about my parents and our money, until there might not be any conversations anymore.

It could go either way. Either way.

I take a deep breath and turn back to Miri.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 915)