The children had both been dropped off at school. Shaindele was at her psychologist appointment. And Yaakov had long ago left for work. She was all alone with no one looking over her shoulder for a change, she thought, pushing aside Mordechai Shalom’s almost-shredded favorite blanket and his bedraggled teddy bear to make a space for herself on the sagging couch. This was the height of decadence, she scolded herself as she stretched out, closing her eyes. She was so tired, so tired! But more than that, she felt hopeless.

She hadn’t expected it to be this way.

The initial euphoria of her marriage and the joy of being part of the religious community had not exactly worn off but had instead settled into a perhaps all too predictable familiarity. Now that the fear of being single without children to care for was no longer hanging over her like the pendulum in Poe’s famous horror story, she found herself taking stock with a colder eye of all she had gained, and more surprisingly, lost.

It wasn’t—God forbid!—that she no longer loved her husband, or her stepchildren or her Creator with the same fervent passion that had fueled her original giant leap into the unknown. She did, more than ever. Most of the time, she felt her heart brimming over with gratitude every time she felt her husband’s warm embrace; every time the children dragged her off to see their latest play fort or work of art; every time she kissed them. And when she blessed her Creator for bringing back the sun each morning, or for the food she ate, or just the simple pleasures of being alive, her prayers were no less heartfelt and sincere. It was just that in becoming this new grateful, pious, loving person, she had lost touch with something equally precious and irreplaceable, the girl she had once been; a girl who soaked up knowledge in college classrooms and joyously climbed mountains, all her senses buzzing and alive, drunk with the joy of the earth’s beauty. That girl hadn’t been to visit her in some time.

She missed her. She missed jogging with her through open spaces, smelling mountain air so fresh you could almost taste it. She missed old trees, wide lawns, an uninterrupted blue expanse of sky. None of that existed in Boro Park.

Even more, she missed the simple courtesies: the politeness of strangers who were careful not to crowd you, who smiled and wished you a good day. Even if they didn’t mean it, couldn’t have cared less, it was helpful, even wonderful to have such encounters on a regular basis. This realization filled her with a newfound appreciation for good manners, which, unfortunately, the people of Boro Park did not share.