Out on a Limb

Tzivia stepped back and examined her work. Perfect. A big picture of the Chazon Ish was now hanging in her living room – her living room! Wouldn’t Moishy Herman be impressed. She picked up Mom’s abstract painting, “Desert Winds,” now sitting forlornly on the side and gently placed it behind the couch.

There was a noise, and Tzivia startled. A car was pulling into the driveway. Mom and Dad. Uh, oh. Tzivia ran to the couch and struck an innocent pose as she began scrolling through her contacts. There really wasn’t a lot to look at on these flip phones…seriously.

“Hi Sharon, Sweetie,” said Mom, shrugging off her fur cape as she entered the foyer. She stopped in front of the mirror to pat her hair into place. “Beautiful wedding. You remember Ilana Golden? I think she was a few grades older than....” Mom stopped mid-sentence, her eyes directly on the face of the Chazon Ish, “Sharon?” she said looking at Tzivia in shock. “Wha...what...what in the world is that?”

“Aaah, look at that,” said Dad joining Mom in front of the new picture. “We have a future interior decorator in the family!” Dad chuckled as he took off his coat.

Mom turned to face Tzivia. “Sharon, honey” she said slowly, “You need to take that down. As in – right, now. This happens to not be your living room.”

“Michelle,” Dad called from the hallway, “Don’t make a big stew. Sharon’s just nervous for her black-hat date tomorrow night. One night with that picture on our wall won’t kill us.”

Mom shook her head, but her voice softened. “Sharon, if this Moshe Herman is worth anything at all, then he won’t care what kind of pictures your parents have or don’t have in their living room.”

“Moishy,” Tzivia corrected her mother before she could help herself.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Moishy as in ‘oy-my-back hurts.’”

Mom eyebrows flew up. “This Moishy-as-in-oy-my-back-hurts is going to have to get used to our rabbi-less living room.” Mom turned and headed toward the stairs. “Next thing you know,” she muttered in Dad’s direction, “she’s going to want us to get rid of our TV.”       

Oh yes, the TV.  Tzivia took a deep breath. “Actually I was thinking of moving the TV.”

There was complete silence for a moment. Mom stopped walking and looked at her from halfway up the stairs. “Sharon, I have news for you. This is your family. While you’re more than welcome to become all yeshivish like your brother Sammy, I mean ‘Sh-mu-el,’ we’re not going to pretend to be something we’re not. We’re a nice Orthodox family, maybe not as black-and-white as you’d like, but good enough.”

Tzivia traced the edge of the rug with her foot. Her parents would never understand. She had tried to show them. Really, she had. When they came to visit her last year in seminary, she took them to Rebbetzin Adler’s home Friday night. But they didn’t see what she saw.

Tzivia saw the glow around the table. Her parents saw the cheap folding chairs. She saw the song of learning lingering on Rabbi Adler’s lips. Her parents saw a weary wife with dirty pots yet to wash. How could she explain glow and song, when all they saw were chairs and pots?  

“Mom,” she said finally, “I want this yeshivish kind of life. Like for real. And this date needs to go well; this is probably my only chance to go out with such a yeshivish guy. He only agreed to go out with me in the first place because Shmuel is his chavrusa.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Dad with a wink, Maybe he only agreed to date you because he has an extra head.”

“Yeah, and an extra eye on top of each one,” Mom added.

Okay. Forget the psychology.

“Please, Daddy,” Tzivia said, leaning against his shoulder and looking up at him, “Moishy Herman’s supposed to be a really great guy. Help me move the TV? Just for one night?”

Dad clutched at his heart with mock concern on his face. “Such drama!” Then he laughed. “Okay, Princess. Whatever you want.”

“Harold, you’re too soft.” Mom pursed her lips and shook her head, but she didn’t look angry – at least not too angry. Tzivia relaxed her shoulders. 

“Come on Michelle.” Dad rolled up his sleeves and began to shove at the media center, “Let’s give this oy-my-back-hurts-Moishy a fighting chance.”

*  *  *

Tzivia and Moishy circled the hanging gardens in the middle of the opulent hotel lobby for the third time. They had already spoken about their crazy camp experiences: Moishy and his friends had once replaced his counselor’s bed with a canoe. Apparently it was “gevaldik.”

They had also done the chavayas-in-Israel conversation; Moishy and chevra had a pact to taste a beer in each place they visited.

Hmmm…

And now they were discussing the different goldfish in the garden’s pond and which one looked like the grandfather, and which one was the yentish aunt. Tzivia knew they should be talking about something more substantial. But what? Family?

No, better not yet.

Tzivia scratched an imaginary mosquito bite on her face, and then brought her hand down slowly so she could take a sneak peek at her watch. “So what would you like your Shabbos table to look like?” she ventured after a painfully silent minute.

Moishy glanced at her, eyebrows furrowed, “Uh...I don’t know. Mistama like a Shabbos table, no?”

“I mean, like, did you ever see a very inspiring Shabbos table?” Tzivia tried again.

“I did, once,” Moishy said finally. “It was interesting, at least. We went to these people in Tzefas. They were like all inspired. Pink and orange tablecloth and a huge plant in the corner. You know the type…I bet their Seders are all Dayeinu and matza ball soup. He turned to face her, “You chap the matzav?”

Tzivia nodded politely, cringing inside. Oh, she chapped the matzav alright.

He’d probably faint if he saw our Pesach Seder. He’s worried about matza ball soup and Dayeinu? How about Mom’s non-frum sister, Aunt Jenny? And Uncle Marty? And, oh my goodness, Nikki, with her Be’er Miriam feminist Haggadah! Would he chap her matzav?

Another silent walk around the gardens, and Moishy suggested they sit and order drinks. Was she maskim?

Yes. She was maskim.

Moishy leaned back into the cushions and started describing his rebbi from Eretz Yisrael. “Mamesh a malach Hashem.”

Tzivia leaned back too and allowed herself to relax. This was safe territory. Moishy’s face seemed to glow as he spoke about his rebbe.

Just as she had always dreamed.

*  *  *

Tzivia cut carefully around the edges of 23 cardboard matzas. She loved her job as a teacher’s assistant in the yeshiva’s preschool. Of course, her parents had insisted she go to college. Tzivia had insisted equally hard that she needed to spend her days in a real Torahdik environment. They had compromised on a frum college program with night classes. So here it was early March already, and she was soaking it up.

“Little Torah, little Torah, let me hold you tight…” The boys belted out the song like their lives depended on it. Yitzy, an intense look on his face, his forehead creased like he had to get this just right; Yerachmiel’s feet swinging, carefree and, oh my goodness, so innocent; Naftali’s bright eyes twinkling at the sight of Morah’s “real” little Torah.

Tzivia stopped cutting for a moment and closed her eyes, “Please Hashem,” she whispered. “Help these children stay this pure, this eager.

The boys finished davening, and there was the dull roar of 23 chairs being pushed to the tables. “We walk slowly, slowly, slowly with our chair, chair, chair,” Morah Chayala sang out over the din.

Tzivia laughed to herself. Nobody ever walked slowly, slowly, slowly with his chair, chair, chair; it was more like a Nascar event than anything else.

Morah Chayala nudged her with her elbow. “Nuuu?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Nu what?” Tzivia was genuinely confused.

“Come on Tzivs,” said Morah Chayala rolling her eyes, “Tell me, already. What’s going on with this guy?”

“Oh that.” Tzivia sighed. “I don’t know. We went out a third time; I’m still waiting to hear from the shadchan. He needs a night to discuss it with his rebbi from Eretz Yisrael.” Tzivia grimaced. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Morah Chayala shrugged, and Tzivia continued. “My mother keeps asking me if I like him. My seminary teachers said not to wait for bells and whistles. I mean I don’t not like him. Does that count?”

Morah Chayala shrugged again and smiled. “It counts for something.”

“Thanks for your help, dating coach,” Tzivia winked and nudged Morah Chayala back.

“How was she supposed to figure this all out?” she thought as she poured milk into 23 plastic cups. She had called Rebbetzin Adler in Eretz Yisrael early this morning. But she hadn’t gained any clarity. For every doubt she brought up, Rebbetzin Adler knew someone who was in that exact situation and, “Baruch Hashem! They’re happily married!” Tzivia wasn’t sure that helped. Was anyone really in her exact situation?

And they didn’t make those niggling voices go away – especially her mother’s voice: “Do you like him, Sharon?”

Did it matter? Didn’t all her teachers in seminary say that’s not the Torah way? Still her mother’s voice hit home more than she cared to admit.

Tzivia’s phone vibrated in her sweatshirt pocket. She quickly pulled it out: the shadchan! She glanced meaningfully at Morah Chayala and ran out to the hallway.                                                                                                                                                                              

The hallway was empty. Good. Tzivia pressed send, “Hello?” she said.

“Hello,” Mrs. Stein’s thick, confident voice came wafting through the phone. “So how did it go last night?”

“Baruch Hashem,” said Tzivia, “It went okay; I mean it was nice.”

“Um, hmm,” Mrs. Stein seemed to be waiting for something. Tzivia could just imagine her pursing her lips.

“What did he say?” Tzivia asked. A door banged upstairs and Tzivia heard pounding on the staircase. Uh, oh…a class was coming down.  

“Well…” Mrs. Stein drew out the word till Tzivia felt like she was about to explode. “He said he’d like to go out again.”

“Uh, okay, great. Any other feedback?” Tzivia walked quickly down the hall, glancing into each classroom, looking for an empty one she could slip into.

“Well,” said Mrs. Stein, “He said you’re a very nice girl…”

But…

“But he felt like you’re not really opening up.”

Tzivia rolled her eyes. Open up. Yes, like one-two-three, open up! I mean, what did he want? To hear about her latest argument with her mother about kollel vs. working? Or should she share one of Nikki’s black-hatter jokes? Or maybe she was just supposed to spill herself in general, like juice, all over the hotel lobby floor?

“Was he specific at all?” she asked.

“Yeladim!” A morah’s voice echoed loudly. “I want to see a straight shura!”

“He just felt like he’s not getting a good picture,” Mrs. Stein said. “You know what I mean?”

No. Honestly, she didn’t. She had tried to tell Moishy about her dreams and hopes for a real Torahdik home, but he always just responded with a vague, “I hear…”

The double doors at the end of the hallway opened. She would never be able to hear Mrs. Stein over the noise of a class. Tzivia opened the door to the janitor’s closet she was standing next to and slipped inside.

Mrs. Stein interpreted her silence as agreement. “Just try and be like, you know, open.”

“I’ll try,” Tzivia said weakly, while stepping over commercial-sized bottles of cleaning fluid. The closet reeked. Was that ammonia?

“I always used to tell my own daughters…”

Sounds of a stampede. “Yeladim!” the Morah shouted right outside the closet.

Tzivia smashed the phone into her ear.

“Can you try that?” Mrs. Stein was saying.

“Um, sure; yeah, of course.”

“I definitely think that will make a big difference.” Mrs. Stein’s tone was warmer now. “So in terms of the next date, what works for you?”

“Any night next week is good for me,” Tzivia said as the door of the closet creaked open. A little boy with red hair and freckles peered in. His eyes looked huge behind a pair of thick, dirty glasses. Tzivia motioned to him to close the door. He closed it.

Phew…

The class stomped down the hall.

“…onday night at 7:30?”

“Okay.” Creak…The door opened again, and there was the freckled boy again, this time with two of his friends. “See? I told you there’s a morah in the closet,” he said proudly. The other boys stared, eyes wide.

“Close. The. Door.” Tzivia mouthed through the dripping mop that was hanging upside down in front of her.

“If you don’t hear back from me, assume it’s all set up. Alright?”

The door slammed shut. The boys giggled and ran down the hallway.

“Sure. That sounds fine,” she said quickly. She’d better get out of here before they came back.

“Well, then, hatzlacha to you. I guess we’ll talk afterwards.” Mrs. Stein sounded rushed now.

“Yes, of course.” Was that the boys coming back? “And thank you so much, Mrs. Stein, for all your guidance,” Tzivia remembered to add.

            Tzivia pressed the end button and let out her breath in a big whoosh. Time to report back to Morah Chayala.

*  *  *

“Cousins night!” Uncle Marty shouted, as he did each Sunday night when he came into the house.

Mom came quickly out of the kitchen carrying a big platter of sushi. “Hey Mart! Hi Jenny,” she said air-kissing her sister. “How’s everybody’s week been?”

Josh shuffled in after his parents and gave a mandatory nod. Then he stuffed his ear buds in and settled himself on the couch.

“Fourteen-year-olds…” Aunt Jenny muttered. You’d think they were born with those things in their ears. How are you doing, sweetie?” she said turning to Tzivia.

Tzivia smiled. At least Aunt Jenny always had something nice to say.

Nikki and Stephanie walked in together.

“Hi Michelle,” said Nikki to Mom as she took off her sweater.

“Hi, Nikki,” said Mom, “Hey, don’t you get cold with all those holes in your jeans?”

Nikki laughed and kissed Mom. “Michelle, you’re funny.”

“I can’t eat those if they have fish in them,” Steph announced loudly, pointing to the sushi. “I’m vegan now!” She did a little twirl to show off her Animals-Are-People-Too shirt. “And these are my new dream-catcher earrings,” she said, fingering the large pink feathers on her ears. “They’re for good luck.” Josh looked up for a moment and rolled his eyes at his younger sister.

“Come sit down, everybody,” said Mom. “I made tofu lasagna and vegetable quiche.  And buffalo wings,” she said, giving Josh a pointed look. Harold!” she shouted up the stairs, “Dinner!”

Tzivia sat and picked at her vegan lasagna, while listening to Nikki’s latest rant about the poor Palestinian children. “Can you imagine the trauma? I mean really. They grow up in a country that’s not even their own!”

Tzivia gritted her teeth and kept her mouth closed. As Rebbetzin Adler always said, “Shalom, first and foremost.”

“Hey Sharon,” Uncle Marty’s voice boomed across the table. “I hear you have a new boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend?!” Nikki burst out laughing. “Sharon has a boyfriend? Yeah, I’d like to see that one.”

Tzivia felt herself turning red. “He’s not a boyfriend. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Steph piped up suddenly. “Like, religious people, they don’t really date. They’ve got like these arranged meetings and stuff.”

Tzivia gave Mom a pleading look, but Mom just put her hands out in a gesture of helplessness.

“Tell us more about your dream-catcher earrings, Steph,” said Tzivia trying to change the subject.

Steph’s eyes lit up. “They’re made by the Native American Navajo tribe. Out in Arizona. Wanna try them?”

“Oh yeah,” said Uncle Marty, “Let’s see Sharon in those big Indian-chief thingies.”

“Sure, I’ll try them,” she said quickly. Better than the boyfriend discussion. “How do I look?” Tzivia swung her head back and forth.

“Awesome,” said Steph. “No, don’t take them off, Sharon. Really.”

Tzivia laughed. Alright, she’d keep them on. It was just Steph and Nikki here anyway. She could goof off a little with them – just like they used to. Shalom first and foremost. This one’s for you, Rebbetzin Adler.

The women started on recipes and Aunt Jenny’s latest bargain buys. Uncle Marty escaped to the couch with a plate of buffalo wings and turned on the TV to the sports channel.

With the TV blaring and Mom and Aunt Jenny shrieking with laughter over some old sisters’ joke, it was a few minutes before anyone even heard the knock on the door. Josh heard it first and went to answer. Nikki peered into the foyer. “It’s some black-hatted guy,” she called back into the living room.

Dad dug in his pocket for a twenty and handed the bill to Nikki. “Here. Give this to Josh to give him.”

“And tell him to get a job and support himself!” Uncle Marty hollered over the TV.

“Marty dear.” Aunt Jenny shook her head disapprovingly.

Nikki disappeared into the foyer. What were they talking about for so long? Tzivia wondered. She thought she heard her name being mentioned. Weird.

There was a lull in the noise for a moment. “Do you mean Sharon?” Josh could be heard quite plainly now.

Tzivia felt the blood drain from her face. She jumped up and ran to the door….Oh, my goodness. It was Moishy Herman standing there. What in the world?

Dad was there a second later. “Please!” he said. “Please, come on in!”

Tzivia’s head began to clear. So Mrs. Stein must have said Sunday, not Monday!  

Moishy looked at Tzivia. “Uh, did I make a mistake?”

“No, no, my mistake,” said Tzivia, “But it’s fine. Really. I just need a minute. Is that okay?” Why was he looking at her like that? Oh! The dream catcher earrings. Shoot. Her hands flew to her ears.

“No problem at all,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Thanks,” said Tzivia. As she rushed up the stairs, she heard Dad speaking, “Marty, can you turn off that blab box for a few minutes? Come Moishy, why don’t you come sit down and meet the family?”

Tzivia ran upstairs and into the bathroom. She leaned back against the door for a minute, willing her breathing to slow down. How could she have made such a mistake? And during Sunday night dinner!

She took a look at herself in the mirror. Good thing she had blown her hair this morning. Now she just needed to reapply her lipstick and switch those earrings.

Moishy was perched on the edge of the couch, shmoozing with Uncle Marty when Tzivia came back downstairs. He quickly got up when he saw her. “So nice meeting everyone,” he said. “Nice talking to you,” he said to Uncle Marty.

Moishy glanced at her, nodded and smiled. “They seem very nice.”

“Is that how you…” Tzivia began, “Like did you…”

He looked at her quizzically.

She took a deep breath and then blurted out, “Did you realize that my family’s that modern, that my cousins are not even frum, and that we have a huge flat screen TV in our living room?”

“Of course I knew. Well, maybe not about your cousins, but you know…nisht g’ferlach.

“But I really am different than my family.”

“I know.  Don’t worry. I’ve been learning with Shmuel for three years already, he told me all about you. Your brother’s a choshuve yungerman – really respected around the beis medrash. You know that, right?”

Tzivia nodded.

“And my mother checked you out. She heard glowing reports. Don’t worry.”

Tzivia smiled. “So, you’re like totally fine with it? Dad, Josh, Marty…it’s all good?”

Moishy suddenly checked his mirrors, switched into the right lane and then pulled into a Seven-Eleven parking lot. “Don’t worry,” he said, “Just pulling over for a few minutes so it’s easier to talk.”

He put the car in park. “Look, you’re pushing me for an answer, so I’ll be honest. When Shmuel first presented the idea, I wasn’t thrilled.” He stole a quick glance at her; she kept her face neutral. “I mean I was unsure. You know? I always thought I’d marry someone more like my family. But Shmuel kept going on and on about you. And I can see that everything he said is true.”

Tzivia smiled a shy smile.

“I also spoke to my rebbi, and he felt like I should give it a try. ‘Nobody had a more modern family than Rochel and Leah,’ is what he said.”

“So you went out with me, hoping I’d be a Rochel or a Leah?” Tzivia stifled a giggle.  

“No, it wasn’t just that. He said everyone has a skeleton in their closet. Would I rather a skeleton I could see or one I couldn’t see? Not that your family is a skeleton, I’m just saying.”

“And now?” She should just keep quiet already. But she had to know.

“I don’t know. It’s one thing to hear about it, but…”

“But you can’t imagine spending Pesach by my parents,” she said. With our matza ball soup and our Dayeinu.

“No, no, chas veshalom! Your parents seem like really nice people, but it’s just very different. I mean, why do I need to…”

“Why do you need to put in any effort when you have a list of a gazillion girls from nice, yeshivish homes?” Tzivia blurted out. She hated herself for sounding so bitter, but the truth was hitting her with an intensity she couldn’t handle.

“Well, why shouldn’t I marry someone with a similar background to mine if that’s more comfortable for me? I’m not allowed to do what’s comfortable?” He was on the defensive now. She’d better be more diplomatic.

But it was too late. She was too angry. All that effort, all those hopes, and here, he could just lift up his hand and a waiter would come and serve him something “more comfortable.”

“So I guess Yaakov had to marry Rochel and Leah because he didn’t have a ‘list,’ right?”

Moishy gave a smirk. “Sure he had a list – it was Rochel and Leah.”

 Tzivia gave a little smile.

“But yeah, I see what you mean,” he said. “Why are you so bent on marrying into a yeshivish family?” he suddenly turned the question on her.

“What do you mean why? I want…”

“I mean, why don’t you want someone like you, who is doing the journey himself? Wouldn’t that be more comfortable for you? I know a lot of nice bachurim like that.”

It was quiet for a minute, and Tzivia fiddled with her seatbelt.

Because then you’re always on the outside looking in. You’re always wondering, is this the way I’m supposed to talk to my children? Am I creating the right atmosphere in the home? You spend your whole life looking in the window and wondering if you really measure up to those on the inside.

A lump suddenly rose in her throat. “It’s just hard to recreate it,” she said finally.

“Sorry, I’m just not hearing you. Why do you need to recreate someone else’s home? You create your own home? No?”

Easy for you to say.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s hard to explain.”

There was another long silence. It was getting way too warm in here. Tzivia opened her window a crack. “So, can we talk tachlis?” she said with a shaky smile.

Moishy bit his lip and gave her a sorry smile. “If you really want tachlis, then I…I guess I can’t really see this working. It just feels too foreign to me.” He suddenly looked worried. “I’m sorry. I…we can still talk about it.”

“It’s okay, you can take me home,” Tzivia said quickly before her voice broke. Please Hashem don’t let me cry on a date.

No, no, please,” Moishy suddenly looked terrified. “Forget what I just said…”

Suddenly, Tzivia was calm. She looked straight at Moishy. “Don’t worry, I understand. I just really want to go home.”

*  *  *

Tzivia snuck back in the house through the side door. She flung herself down on her bed and waited for the tears to pour forth, but for some strange reason, they didn’t. Eventually she went downstairs and informed her parents that it was over.

Mom clucked her tongue and puttered around, serving her herbal tea and leftover sushi. But Tzivia could see that she was relieved. That was fine.

It was too hard, this game of pretending about her family. Maybe she should go out with boys more similar to her. As Tzivia carried her mug to the sink, she suddenly found herself humming.

Shmuel called the next morning, incensed, and he was definitely going to have a talk with Moishy. Mrs. Stein called as well, apologizing profusely about the mix-up, “Never in her life did such a thing ever happen…”  Tzivia let it all wash over her. Let them yell.

And now here she was, two nights later, walking aimlessly down Willow Drive. The neighborhood was quiet this time of night, and the weather was nice, just cool enough to make you feel alive without freezing your ears off. She picked up her phone to call a friend, when it suddenly vibrated.

“Hello?” She said, answering the phone.

“Uh…Hi…it’s uh, Moishy Herman. Is this Tzivia?

Silence.

“Hello…?”

“Uh, yeah, this is Tzivia,” she said. “How are you?”

“Uh…yeah, baruch Hashem. Um…so I know this is a little weird that I’m calling you straight.”

You can say that again.

“It’s like this. I’ve been feeling very bad about the way we ended. I mammash didn’t mean for it to happen that way.”

“But you meant for it to happen,” interrupted Tzivia.

“I guess, but I feel bad about the way it came out. Anyway, I was talking it over with my rebbi after seder today, and he agreed with you.”

“Agreed with me?”

“Yeah, he thought I’m mechuyev (obligated) to put in a little more effort. He said of course I have a right to look for someone from a similar background, but if Hashem put something in my lap, I need to make every effort to see if something can takeh come from it.”

 “So you’re calling to tell me…”

“To ask mechila and to ask you if maybe we can try that last date again.”

“Like a do-over?”

“Something like that.”

Tzivia was quiet. Did she want a do-over? Two days ago, her answer would have been yes. But now? It all felt like too much of a struggle. She just wanted to put it behind her. But was that just a cop-out?

“Can I sleep on it?” She said finally.

“Sure. No problem. You can call Mrs. Stein if you’re interested, or either way, actually.”

“Okay. Will do. Thank you so much for calling,” said Tzivia.

“Kol tuv.”

Tzivia stood still, blood pounding in her ears. Did she really want to marry someone because his rebbi told him to?

She turned and headed toward home. Marrying into a ready-made yeshivish family would gain her instant access into the life she wanted; in that way it was easier. But in some ways it would be harder. Moishy would never feel comfortable with her family. Was she ready to loosen the bonds with them?

She was home. Tzivia looked up at her house, the house she grew up in. The lights were on in the living room, and she could see her parents moving around inside. Tears sprang suddenly to her eyes.

So what if matza ball soup is the highlight of our Seder? And Dayeinu...Dad singing off-tune...Uncle Marty bellowing out the chorus...Aunt Jenny and me doubled over in laughter.

But it wasn’t just about matza ball soup; she knew that now. Tzivia walked slowly up the flagstone path. She stopped in front of the old, gnarled tree in the yard, the one with the roots that reached all the way to the street. She put out her hands to touch it, to feel the bumps and dips that had weathered the test of time.

Hadn’t her parents given her the gift of Pesach in the first place? Hadn’t they sat down each year to ask Ma nishtana…why is this night different…Why is our nation different? All those Pesachs, all those Sedarim – they were the foundation of her new inspired life. None of that started in seminary.

She’d call Mrs. Stein in the morning. No rush. But she knew with certainty now that she couldn’t marry Moishy. Her family, with all its quirks, was a part of her; she needed a husband who understood that. She might branch out, flourish in her own way, but they’d always be her roots. And they were good enough to be thankful for. Dayeinu.

Tzivia walked up the front steps and swung open the front door. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” she called out. “I’m home!”