“I’ll call you,” the two young women said, blowing kisses as they moved off to allow the long queue of well-wishers to advance. There was Rabbi Weintraub’s wife and Rebbitzen Basha, who had mentored her in her new life. And finally, there was her mother and her partner, Ravi.

“So you survived, Mom?”

“Well, if I would have known there was going to be so much wild dancing, I would have worn more comfortable shoes! My feet are killing me!” she groaned, lifting her feet out of the five-inch heels and resting them on the floor. “That’s okay, right? I’m not scandalizing you around your new religious friends, am I?”

“No, Mom. And who cares anyway?” She leaned forward to hug her mother’s stiff, resistant shoulders, massaging them. “When are you going back to Boca Raton?”

“We have a 6:00 a.m. flight tomorrow.”

“It was so wonderful of you and Ravi to come,” she said, nodding at the tall, dark man by her mother’s side, the only man on this side of the mechitza. He was back to wearing his traditional Sikh turban, Leah noted, wondering how her mother was dealing with it. She’d sworn to leave him if that ever happened. Her poor mom! First her daughter, now her boyfriend! She kept running away from religion, and it somehow kept finding her.

“So what now, honey?”

“What do you mean, Mom?”

“What is life going to be like for a married woman in the ultra-Orthodox world?”

“I suppose I’m about to find out.” She laughed.

Her mother took her head. “I really hope this works out, Lola—”

Leah flinched at the sound of her given name.

“Sorry, sorry. I sometimes just forget. Leah.”

“It’s okay, Mom.”

“But I want you to know, whatever happens, you can always come home. We will always be there for you. You are my baby girl.” She drew her close and kissed her.

Leah rested stiffly against her mother’s shoulder for a moment, annoyed and disappointed at this implication of impending failure. She’s never going to get it, she thought, straightening up and fingering the flimsy red scarf with gold spangles resting lightly over her mother’s spiky platinum-tipped hair, a knee jerk to the Orthodox demand that married women cover their hair. She sighed. You only had one mother. Their relationship, imperfect as ever, would go on the rest of their lives.

“Mom, I am really, really, really happy.”

Cheryl nodded, tears making her eyes sparkle.

And then finally, when the hall was almost empty and the mechitza removed, the family stood together. Shaindele held a sleeping Mordechai Shalom in her arms, while Fruma Esther held Chasya’s hand. Her two teenage stepsons stood shyly behind their father.

“We will all meet tomorrow at the sheva brachot,” Fruma Esther told her.