What would he have done without her? What would he have been able to do without her? It could have all happened in exactly the same way and he could be alone, or greeted by some widow into a living room with a white linen upholstered couch no one was allowed to sit on, and fancy armchairs covered in plastic that would have stuck to the back of his thighs. Or some bitter divorcée, her face filled with annoyance and hatred, watching his every move, waiting to catch him out, to say, “Ah, you men, you are all the same!”

Instead, he would come home to a happy place, a kind woman who loved him, children jumping into his arms, smiling, his children, his motherless children, with a mother now, to care for them and love them …

“Are you all right, Yaakov? Sometimes I think maybe I pushed you too hard to remarry.”

He smiled into the rav’s anxious face. “Finding a new wife was the best thing that could have happened to me, Rav. You were so right. I was broken, and she helped me to heal. She’s a gift from God.”

The rav seemed glad to hear this, but surprised. “Yes, when we are young…”

There seemed to be a question at the end of that statement, something unsure, incomplete.

“I don’t think age matters, Rav. Wasn’t it you who told me that this is what God asks of us, to live in partnership, men and women, not to be alone, that this is God’s will?”

The rav gave a self-deprecating smile. “Yes, I remember something of that nature. I remember telling it to you. And was it true?”

“Yes, Rav. It was true.”

The two men, the older man who had fulfilled every dream that Yaakov had ever had, and the young man about to plunge into a life he had never planned for, never expected, and really never wanted, embraced, each feeling their courage and ability to face the future somehow strengthened.

“Don’t be a stranger.”

“Never, Rav. And I wish a refuah shlama to the rebbitzen.”

The rav nodded, his eyes once again seeking the unknown.

7

LEAH’S SHAME

One look at Fruma Esther’s face told Leah everything she had to know.

“Come in, please, Bubbee Fruma. I can explain.”

The old woman crossed the threshold cautiously, looking around as if she expected some evidence of an infestation—mice, rats, roaches—that would turn the familiar terrain of her deceased daughter’s home into a suddenly foreign and slightly disgusting place. But there were only the baskets of laundered clothes, the newly vacuumed old carpet, the well-dusted photographs, and beyond them the made-up beds. Order reigned. And except for the industrious sounds of the hardworking dishwasher and washing machine, the silence was broken only by the whirr of Leah’s computer sitting in the center of the dining room table, surrounded by piles of folders.

“The children?”