As much as she tried, she couldn’t help not only missing his company but also feeling unfairly burdened with household chores and childcare. After all, she also worked, and her salary was often even greater than his! Was this not his house as well? Were these not also his children? So far, she had chosen not to bring it up, aware that just a hint from her would get him to drop some or even most of these activities. But what would she gain? She couldn’t risk having a man on her hands that was even more depressed and unhappy than he already was.

While he hadn’t exactly opened up about his feelings, she knew him enough to understand that he, too, was in mourning for his old life. Together, these shadows from both their pasts had cast a pall over their life together. While she very much wanted to help him, more and more, the unfair distribution of their chores and responsibilities was making her feel like a martyr. And that, she realized, wasn’t sustainable. It was a stopgap, not a lifestyle. At least not for her.

How did other women do it? Fruma Esther? Basha? Her neighbors? Their entire lives were dedicated to helping their men study, taking every burden off their shoulders to do that. And yet they went about cheerfully, with kind and ready smiles, earning salaries, cooking enormous meals, cleaning, and taking care of a horde of children, not just the two little ones and a teenager that she had to deal with. These women had seven, ten, even twelve children! And more grandchildren than you could count were always turning up on their doorsteps for advice, meals, money, and love. She envied them their serenity, stamina, and dedication; their endless faith and wisdom.

Was it her secular American upbringing that made her view the equal distribution of household chores and childcare as a right? Not to mention her own particular belief that every person also had an inalienable right to leisure. What was there in her character that was so hopelessly flawed that even her blessings sometimes became unbearable burdens?

Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, refusing to be silenced, no less harsh and far more relevant than she had ever dreamed possible: Why would you want to be some man’s kitchen slave and babymaker?

If only, she thought, hugging her stomach. Rather than fulfilling her need for motherhood, her love for her stepchildren had only strengthened it. Her longing for a child of her own had grown exponentially with time, becoming more and more like a sailor’s passion to finally see dry land. She couldn’t help it. If she could love another woman’s children the way she did, what would it be like to have one that was totally her own, with no memory of other soft hands and warm eyes that had caressed them in the not-quite-forgotten twilight that was early childhood?