He had not followed any of the instructions, finding them instinctively wrong. Neither had Zissele. She was all confusion and fear of not fulfilling her religious duties. In the end, instead of rapping her knees or forcibly hugging and kissing her, he had simply sat on the edge of the bed, his hands folded between his knees, filled with pity for her and for himself. Sex never happened that first night. Instead, they had separated in fear and confusion, the failure devastating to them both. Nevertheless, looking back, this had been far better than forcing himself to do things he despised and forcing her to do something she wasn’t ready for.

Eventually, of course, like every other devout couple, with time and patience and without knee-tapping and forced embraces, they had figured it out. But for both of them, their wedding night had remained forever a shameful secret, a failure, when it could have been a fond recollection filled with teasing, secret laughter, and joy, he thought. And even as the years passed and the walls between them had crumbled, children blessing their union, still, rules and obligations, duty and piety had intruded upon their intimacy like phantom eyes in the darkness for the rest of their marriage.

He didn’t want that with Leah. He wanted—so much—to make her happy, and to be happy himself; to firmly close the door of their bedroom, locking out the niggling voices in his head of rabbis and teachers and pious texts. He wanted, once and for all, to banish the doubts, the self-hatred, the awful memories; to be free.

Where to begin?

She took a hesitant step toward him.

“Yaakov, shut off the light.”

His heart did a somersault. Of course, the light. He moved quickly.

But the room was still bathed in pale shadows from the streetlamps of Brooklyn that washed through the newly polished windowpanes in their splintered wooden frames. He inhaled, wondering if she’d also demand they close the blind, or cover the windows with thick cloths, as they’d been instructed. To his relief, she didn’t.

He stood there foolishly, he thought, not knowing what to do next. How he wished he could say something funny or witty or romantic! How he longed to behave in a worldly, confident way that would impress her! How he longed, in short, to be someone else. But he was stuck with himself, he thought dismally, looking at this young woman he had fallen in love with so deeply, afraid of making some fatal error that would reveal to her what a profound mistake she had made to connect her life to the shambles that was his own.

They waited in silence, paralyzed by uncertainty. And then, for some reason he himself didn’t understand, he moved toward her, taking her hand in his and entwining his long fingers with hers. “Leah,” he whispered, kissing her fingertips. “My beautiful bride.”