between him and his parents run quite high. Maybe because he’s not as rigid in his observance as they are? I can only hope it’s not entirely to do with his decision to marry me.
I know I’m not their idea of a dream wife for their son—I’m a ba’alat teshuva after all, there are no distinguished rabbis in my family, and they don’t care that my grandfather was a well-known record producer. Elan’s never shared with me the reasons he doesn’t seem as close to his parents as Moyshe and Dovid do and I don’t want to pry. It’s not like I want to hash out the reasons for my own familial drift.
Speaking of…
“Z—Tzipporah,” my father says, not bothering to contain his eye roll. He’ll call me my chosen name but not without letting me know he doesn’t like it. “It’s late and your mother and I should be going.”
What?
“But…” It’s Shabbos. We’d invited them to stay and they’d agreed, if reluctantly. I cleaned the guestroom today, made the bed. Even bought flowers for the bureau. Delphinium, my mother’s favorite. I know they think it’s ridiculous, to not drive on Shabbos, but I was hoping they’d respect my feelings, if not my beliefs. Elan’s parents will be horrified. “I thought you and Mom were going to stay.”
“We were, but we’re supposed to meet the Gilberts for dinner tomorrow evening and we won’t make it in time if we wait until sundown tomorrow.”
“But—” They hadn’t mentioned dinner with the Gilberts when I invited them to have Shabbos with us over a week ago. Which means they either already had the plans with the Gilberts and always intended to leave early, or if they made the dinner plans after the fact, did it blithely, knowing it would upset me.
Elan rests a hand on my thigh under the table and leans over. “It’s okay, Tzipporah. We offered a place for them to stay so they wouldn’t have to break Shabbos. It’s not your fault that they’re choosing to. No one will hold you at fault. You’ve done your duty. Don’t worry about it.”
Disappointment and humiliation are making my throat tight, even though I know Elan is right and he’s absolved me of any responsibility. It’s their choice and we’ve done everything possible to make it comfortable for them to keep the Sabbath. It’s not our fault they won’t.
So I plaster on a tight smile in the face of Elan’s parents’ blatant disapproval. “Of course. But won’t you stay for dessert?”
I don’t expect them to say yes and they don’t, bidding the Kleins good night. Tonight had been awkward, which I fully expected, but I’d thought all things considered it had gone pretty well. Until now.
I offer to walk my parents to the door, excusing myself from the table.
“Thank you for dinner,” my mom says, shrugging on her coat. “We’ll have to do it again sometime.”
I can’t help muttering a sulky, “Not on Shabbos.”
“Don’t be difficult,” my father snaps, irritation flaring on his face. “We sat through hours of conversation with those people.”
“ Those people are my family now and you barely talked to them.”
“What are we supposed to say to them, Zoe? They’re from a different planet.”
“You only feel that way because you don’t know them.”
Not that I’m comfortable with Elan’s parents by any stretch of the imagination, but they certainly don’t deserve to be referred to as “those people.” If my parents tried a little harder…
“Maybe next time you can come up to Avon?”
My mother’s suggestion softens me but there’s no way we’d be able to spend the weekend at my parents’ home. They’d probably serve us ham and cheese omelets on Saturday morning. The very idea makes my insides knot up. It’s been one thing to try to muddle through when it’s just me, but to involve Elan and have my parents disregard his faith that way would be unacceptable.
“Maybe for Sunday brunch,” I offer. “Sarah and Joel could come too.”
I’d have
I know I’m not their idea of a dream wife for their son—I’m a ba’alat teshuva after all, there are no distinguished rabbis in my family, and they don’t care that my grandfather was a well-known record producer. Elan’s never shared with me the reasons he doesn’t seem as close to his parents as Moyshe and Dovid do and I don’t want to pry. It’s not like I want to hash out the reasons for my own familial drift.
Speaking of…
“Z—Tzipporah,” my father says, not bothering to contain his eye roll. He’ll call me my chosen name but not without letting me know he doesn’t like it. “It’s late and your mother and I should be going.”
What?
“But…” It’s Shabbos. We’d invited them to stay and they’d agreed, if reluctantly. I cleaned the guestroom today, made the bed. Even bought flowers for the bureau. Delphinium, my mother’s favorite. I know they think it’s ridiculous, to not drive on Shabbos, but I was hoping they’d respect my feelings, if not my beliefs. Elan’s parents will be horrified. “I thought you and Mom were going to stay.”
“We were, but we’re supposed to meet the Gilberts for dinner tomorrow evening and we won’t make it in time if we wait until sundown tomorrow.”
“But—” They hadn’t mentioned dinner with the Gilberts when I invited them to have Shabbos with us over a week ago. Which means they either already had the plans with the Gilberts and always intended to leave early, or if they made the dinner plans after the fact, did it blithely, knowing it would upset me.
Elan rests a hand on my thigh under the table and leans over. “It’s okay, Tzipporah. We offered a place for them to stay so they wouldn’t have to break Shabbos. It’s not your fault that they’re choosing to. No one will hold you at fault. You’ve done your duty. Don’t worry about it.”
Disappointment and humiliation are making my throat tight, even though I know Elan is right and he’s absolved me of any responsibility. It’s their choice and we’ve done everything possible to make it comfortable for them to keep the Sabbath. It’s not our fault they won’t.
So I plaster on a tight smile in the face of Elan’s parents’ blatant disapproval. “Of course. But won’t you stay for dessert?”
I don’t expect them to say yes and they don’t, bidding the Kleins good night. Tonight had been awkward, which I fully expected, but I’d thought all things considered it had gone pretty well. Until now.
I offer to walk my parents to the door, excusing myself from the table.
“Thank you for dinner,” my mom says, shrugging on her coat. “We’ll have to do it again sometime.”
I can’t help muttering a sulky, “Not on Shabbos.”
“Don’t be difficult,” my father snaps, irritation flaring on his face. “We sat through hours of conversation with those people.”
“ Those people are my family now and you barely talked to them.”
“What are we supposed to say to them, Zoe? They’re from a different planet.”
“You only feel that way because you don’t know them.”
Not that I’m comfortable with Elan’s parents by any stretch of the imagination, but they certainly don’t deserve to be referred to as “those people.” If my parents tried a little harder…
“Maybe next time you can come up to Avon?”
My mother’s suggestion softens me but there’s no way we’d be able to spend the weekend at my parents’ home. They’d probably serve us ham and cheese omelets on Saturday morning. The very idea makes my insides knot up. It’s been one thing to try to muddle through when it’s just me, but to involve Elan and have my parents disregard his faith that way would be unacceptable.
“Maybe for Sunday brunch,” I offer. “Sarah and Joel could come too.”
I’d have
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