Originally published at Medium on July 27 2020
September 1990, I was 17, it was Rosh Hashanah and I was on display.
Our Shul had a U-Shaped balcony, overlooking the Main Sanctuary on the ground floor where the men prayed. The perimeter of the balcony had four foot tall solid wooden panels that reached slightly higher than the bottoms of the lace curtains which hung from the ceiling, ensuring a complete separation between the men and women.
On special occasions, such as the Shabbat before a wedding, when the groom would say special blessings on the Torah, the female relatives would stand close to the gaps between the lace curtains and push the curtain over ever so slightly to be able to see the goings-on downstairs.
The women’s section was usually empty. It was only used on Shabbat and Holidays and even on Shabbat was sparsely attended. Mothers stayed home with their young children; it was only the middle-aged women and several dedicated teenagers who would attend regularly.
On Rosh Hashanah, however, the women’s section was full. Mothers brought their young children dressed in their holiday finest, and each seat in the Shul was taken. Young teenagers would bring their grandmothers, lugging the wheelchairs up the wooden staircase located at the back of the building and specially designated for the women.
My clothing had been carefully selected to be elegant enough to make me stand out, but not too flashy to make me seem ostentatious.
I wore simple black pumps with kitty heels. The heels couldn’t be too high since I was tall and I needed to make sure that I wouldn’t be taller than any prospective husband. My satin skirt scattered with gold medallions hung midway between my knees and ankles, the modest length required by the Rabbis. My sweater matched my skirt perfectly and was loose enough not to show any curves but not too lose to be considered casual and messy. A white-collar hugged my neck tightly ensuring that no part of my chest would show. My hair was perfectly done, cut short to ensure that it would always stay in place, and the small gold studs on my ear completed my demure and modest look.
I had arrived back home from Gateshead Seminary, a Jewish Ultra-Orthodox Boarding School in Northern England, which I had attended for one year, several months earlier. My mother told me that I could come back home if I behaved, which I took to mean that I needed to speak respectfully to her and marry the man she chose. I knew that my parents wanted to marry me off as soon as possible. Being that I was the oldest of four daughters, marrying me off would ensure that I was not holding up any of my sisters from finding their match.
The matchmakers must have had my parent’s phone number on speed dial as the beige phone which hung on our kitchen wall would ring several times a week with suggestions of young men for my parents to consider. My mother would pick up the phone determinedly and ask one of us to hold it as she would scurry off to the den to take the call, closing the door behind her.
She never told me who the matchmakers were, or the names of young men who were suggested. She said she would only tell me once they had passed her screening.
“I need to make sure that it is right for you. I know you want a serious learner, someone that will study the Talmud for years to come, and of course, we need to make sure that he comes from a respectable family, a family of Rabbis, as we do.”
I was living with my parents in a large brick house in Monsey, the largest home on the street. The rest of the houses were small flat ranch houses covered in plastic-looking panels. We had moved to Monsey two years earlier and since this was the first home that my parents had built from scratch, my mother designed it to be beautiful, as well as practical for our family of ten.
Though we didn’t speak of it, we four older girls also knew that having a big showy home would help us find our matches. Parents of respectable eligible young men would comb the world, looking for a rich father-in-law for their son and we were the perfect contestants.
The house was flanked by tall and willowy cedar trees. A flagstone path ran from the driveway at the right of house to the double doors which opened to a large foyer. My mother declared that she would not put a marble floor in the foyer as that was too ostentatious, and my father insisted on solid filled doors. That was a sign of a quality house, he said.
The house had three stories. The top story had seven bedrooms and three bathrooms. My sister and I each had our own bedroom, and the rest of my siblings shared bedrooms. Each of the rooms was fitted with its own sink, to ensure that the bathroom wouldn’t too get crowded in the morning rush, my mother proclaimed.
The main floor was carefully designed with a family room with a front-facing bay window, a study with floor to ceiling bookshelves, a large dining room with a table large enough for 12 people; 20 when it was extended, a sunken living room, a large L-shaped kitchen, and small Passover kitchen off the side door, which was fully outfitted with a refrigerator, oven, and cabinets full of specially designated housewares that were used to cook the Passover food once a year.
The eating area in the kitchen extended out from the rest of the house into the backyard and was topped with a removable skylight which also served as a special Sukkah roof for the annual fall Holiday. The large kitchen was lined with soft pink wooden cabinets and had originally been designed with mirrored backsplashes. After we lived in the house for a week, my mother said that the mirrors gave her headaches and insisted that the builder remove them.
The basement floor had a large carpeted playroom area, a walk-in storage closet packed with a miscellaneous supply of household goods, enough to supply us for months, a guest bedroom, and an apartment with its own side door. Though it was built to be an in-law’s apartment, my parents used it to host a family of five who had come to the USA from Israel for medical treatment for their son,
My father had retired from his job at 40, determined to dedicate the rest of his life to the study of the Talmud, and moved us to Monsey to fulfill his dream. He had worked hard for most of his life and had several large investments and businesses to show for it.
But it hadn’t always been this way.
My parents were both children of Holocaust survivors, of refugees. Both of their parents had narrowly escaped the holocaust losing their entire families and married shortly thereafter. My mother’s parents moved to Brooklyn, NY, and my father’s parents settled in London, England. Both cities had growing enclaves of Ultra-Orthodox Jews, which my grandparents joined. My mother’s father, who never spoke of the wife and two young boys who were brutally murdered in the holocaust, founded a printing store in Brooklyn, located under their two-story home, which provided wedding invitations, posters, and stamps for the growing Ultra-Orthodox community in Williamsburg. I loved spending time in the store, sitting behind the counter with my grandmother, my feet swinging under the chair, imbibing the smells of the raw wood floor, and the heady smell of the ink.
My mother told me that as a young girl, she had promised herself that she would never take money from her father.
“I decided as a little girl that I would marry a man who would support me. My father worked hard and has been through so much. I want to protect him.” She proclaimed defiantly.
This was breaking family tradition. For generations, women had to have a dowry to marry well.
Her mother, my grandmother was 21 years old when the Holocaust arrived in Hungary in 1944.
“She was still unmarried at that old age because her father was a poor man and had no dowry so no one would marry her.” My mother confided in me.
When my parents got married in 1971, they were poverty-stricken. My mother moved from Brooklyn, as a young married woman to live with my father in London. My father, a very bright and newly licensed computer developer, when computers took up an entire room, could find no work during the economic downturn of the 70s.
Help came in the form of my mother’s wealthy cousins, the Reich’s. They had moved to Canada in the 50s, directly from Tangiers, Morocco where they had found refuge during the Holocaust and had quickly built up a successful Real Estate business. My father was brought into the business and soon became a trusted employee of the company, not only earning a salary but also receiving percentages of new acquisitions. My father also began managing the charitable arm of the company which distributed millions of dollars annually to organizations, individuals, and communities in Jewish Orthodox communities throughout the world.
The Toronto Jewish Ultra-Orthodox Community in the 70s and 80s was divided by a firm line. There were the very wealthy families, mostly my mother’s cousins, who lived in big fancy houses, and then there were the others. I was confused and could never quite figure out where we belonged. We didn’t talk about money.
“You don’t belong to the first-class.” Esther, my neighbor was telling me as we were walking home from school. “Malky never asks you to sit next to her or share her cupcake with you. And you are her cousin.”
Later that week, I was at the park and I overheard a young girl telling my sister. “You just moved into a big fancy house. You are rich; all cousins of the Reich’s are rich.”
In 1986, when I was 13, my father won second place in the national lottery. I went to school the next morning frozen, juxtaposed between fear and excitement. My father had come home the past evening, in a huff. The Rabbi had reprimanded him for speaking of his win.
Was it okay if I spoke of it? I wasn’t sure.
But the news traveled fast, and as I left the auditorium after morning prayers, my path was blocked by a gaggle of girls walking towards me.
“We know that you are rich. We also know that your father won the lottery.”
I wanted to run and hide but smiled bravely instead, barely lifting my eyes and nodded my head.
Yes, I was rich.
My mother bought me a white ruffled Yves St Laurent shirt in Winners, a discount store in the neighborhood.
“You see, you are rich.” Yehudis, an outspoken classmate, confronted me when she saw me wearing my new shirt. “Only rich girls wear designer shirts to school.”
I cringed but dared not speak up. My father still had the same car and still wore the same slovenly clothing, his crumpled shirt constantly escaping from his pants. My parent’s strict rules hadn’t changed and I still felt the same.
Did anything change?
When my father retired three years later and we moved to Monsey, I knew for certain that we were rich. There was no other way that he could stop working, move to a new town, and build us a big fancy house.
My parents quickly established a stellar reputation for themselves in their new community, as my father began studying daily in a local synagogue and my mother started working as an English Principal at the local Ultra-Orthodox girl’s school. Our new home became a hub of activity as my father hosted male-only evening parlor events for local charities and my mother gathered women together to plan fundraising projects for a local school for children with disabilities.
It was several days after Rosh Hashanah and I met my future husband’s parents for the first time at our large dining room table in Monsey. The mother, dressed in a blonde elegant wig with a blue cardigan and gold chain around her neck sat directly across from me, separated by the lace-covered wide oak table, flanking my mother who sat at the foot of the table. My father sat at the head of the table with the father, dressed in a grey single-breasted suit and a “Hamburg” a high topped hat, at his side, two beige plastic-covered upholstered chairs separating him from his wife.
My thighs stuck to each other as my black satin skirt stayed glued to the plastic-covered upholstered chair. I took shallow breaths not daring to relax. I had to be on my best behavior.
I had to please
My parents wanted this and I couldn’t ruin do anything to ruin it
My future in-laws came on separate missions. She came to check me out and see if I was suitable for her son. He, on the other hand, had come to discuss financial arrangements. My future husband came with a price. Serious learning boys, young men who would devote their lives to their Talmudic studies, considered it their right to be generously compensated to continue their studies unhindered and his father came to ensure that he got what he deserved.
All learning boys came with a price attached.
Some commanded the price of monthly rent in a basement apartment for five years. Others expected to be given a house outright, while others expected a monthly stipend. According to the matchmaker, this young man was such a catch that he deserved no less than a fully paid-off house and a generous monthly stipend for many years.
My parents were eager to pay the price. Procuring a learning boy for a son-in-law would catapult them to an elite status in the community, something that they had worked hard to achieve.
His parents would call for him to come home from Israel, where he was studying in an elite Yeshiva and meet with me only after they had gotten a firm commitment from my father.
“There is no point for him to come back earlier, we must have this finalized first.” They told the Matchmaker
The meeting between the men ended with a firm handshake and a smile, as my future mother-in-law looked me up and down, nodding in approval as they both took the two steps down, into the sunken living room, out through the foyer, and past the large double doors onto the flagstone path and left our home.
A week later, right after Yom Kippur, soon after Shabbat had ended at sunset, I met my future husband for the very first time across my aunt’s dining room table. We were meeting at my aunt’s apartment in Brooklyn to meet Moshe, the prospective young man. My mother thought it was best we meet there, away from our prying neighbors and the younger children, as the meeting had to remain a secret until we were officially engaged.
My aunt and uncle’s apartment was located on the second floor of a 1940’s Brownstone in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It had classic wide brown stairs with curved banisters that finished with a curled post that swirled into an ice cream shaped ending. The small paper label with their last name Stern, under the bronze oval-shaped peephole on the brown painted door, had faded over the years. The front door opened to a small hallway which was flanked by the linoleum covered kitchen on one side and the maroon carpeted dining room on the other, a narrow archway separating the two rooms.
I fingered the lace tablecloth which fell to my lap and as per my father’s warnings, lowered my hands under the table hiding my finger with the misshapen nail which had been injured when I was a baby. Conversation and laughter drifted from the kitchen into the room as my aunt and uncle, father, and the young man’s mother sat patiently for the hour designated for our conversation.
Moshe sat across from me, elbows resting on the edge of the table. He was dressed in his Shabbat finest, a large felt board-brimmed black hat on his head and a shiny overcoat on his thin frame. The black overcoat was imprinted with flowers swirling in dizzying concentric circles.
“The weather was rainy here in Brooklyn, how was the weather by you in Monsey?”
He began in Yiddish, and I was determined to answer him in Yiddish.
Though Yiddish was my mother tongue and I understood it perfectly, I had not spoken it conversationally in many years. Six months earlier, I had sat on this very chair and met another young man. My uncle’s mother, an elderly woman who had been in the kitchen, during the meeting questioned me when I got out.
“You didn’t speak to him in Yiddish. That’s not right.”
When the matchmaker called several days later saying that the young man was not interested in seeing me again, I was sure that it was my fault, I hadn’t spoken in Yiddish.
I was going to make it right now. I was going to be perfect.
I glanced up for a moment, my eyes meeting the brim of his hat; his gaze modestly focusing on the table. “The weather was rainy by us too.” I efforted the words in Yiddish.
The sounds of the chattering of the adults in the kitchen were a welcome distraction as I sat stiffly in my chair nodding at the right moments and responding appropriately to the questions posed to me.
And then it was over.
I barely heard my father’s footsteps as he walked into the softly carpeted room and told us that the conversation was over, we were going home.
We had barely arrived home and the phone rang. It was the Matchmaker on the phone.
My mother came out of the den with a beaming smile. “She said they want to meet again. He wants to see you again.”
I felt a rush of relief. Perhaps I had done the right thing now. He did want to meet with me again.
Two more meetings and we were engaged.
The matchmaker had confirmed with my parents that Moshe’s parents agreed to finalize the arrangements. We could now officially announce the engagement.
The large kitchen set up for the Sukkot holidays, its walls decorated with hand-made colorful crafts, and the open skylight window hung with fresh fruits were now the center of festivities. All relatives and close friends of the family were informed of the engagement
Small plastic cups of whiskey were passed along the men’s side as the sounds of l’chaim filled the air. The women nibbled daintily on the delicately decorated cakes set on our finest china on the other side.
“I fully trust him to handle the money I give him.” I overheard my father telling my mother later that evening. “He is so mature and responsible.”
One of the first trips we made as a married couple was to Victor Stern’s office, the local Real Estate Attorney at his office on Route 76.
“I will be transferring the house I own next door to you until we find a house for you to live in permanently. I will gift it to you, instead of selling it so we won’t need to pay taxes, and then it is all yours.” My father was explaining the process to me as I sat in the back seat of the car, with my husband sitting in the front seat next to my father.
The paperwork was swiftly passed around the large oval table in the windowless room from person to person as I signed in my married name for the first time, Beatrice Brown. The house was officially ours. We were homeowners, me at 18, and my husband at the age of 20.
We moved to Israel two weeks later, intending to stay for a year but eventually residing there for over a decade. We lived in a large rambling apartment in Jerusalem built in the late 60s, after the Six-day war, in a community built for American Religious Immigrants. My parents had purchased the apartment several years earlier, in the mid-80s from a prominent Rabbi’s daughter. She was moving to Har Nof a newer neighborhood in Jerusalem and though she kept her apartment next door to deliver classes to her students, she sold her father’s apartment, a replica of her own, to my parents.
The apartment had been custom-built for the rabbi and took up the space of two apartments on the first floor of a flat and wide building built on rocky mountain terrain. The apartment topped a wide lobby-like entranceway that opened to the open hills of Jerusalem bringing in strong breezes and sandstorms from the desert below.
The harsh climate had taken its toll on the apartment. The window screens were covered with years of dust and the stone floors covering the four large bedrooms, the dining room, living room, and kitchen had decades of grime stuck in its corners.
Moshe spent his days and evenings in his scholarly pursuits, at a yeshiva studying with his friends, as I stayed at home, busy with my household responsibilities, coping with the first months of pregnancy, and acclimating to a new culture. As was the custom of many young couples at that time, we made weekly trips to the Kosel, the Western Wall.
“I thought we would have enough money to take taxis to the Kosel, I did not expect that we would have to take the bus, I don’t like to sit next to all those women,”
Moshe complained late one Saturday evening when we got home, my pregnant belly slowing down my walk.
I was confused.
Weren’t we only using part of our monthly stipend?
Didn’t we leave part of the money in our bank account in New York, every month?
I didn’t dare ask.
Didn’t my father say that he fully trusted Moshe with money? He must know what he is doing.
“Can we please do something to thank my parents? I want to thank them for all they give us.”
Though my parents never said anything, I felt uncomfortable after months of living in their apartment and receiving generous monthly stipends.
“You know that all money comes from Bashefer, the Creator, there is no need to thank them,” Moshe replied looking away.
I never saw that money that my parents gave us. Moshe received the money directly from my father, and he would give me small amounts for purchases. I often felt torn between my husband and my parents’ wishes.
My sister was getting married and with four children in tow, we traveled from Israel to attend the wedding.
“Come early so that I can get the dressmaker to sew wedding dresses for you and the children. I picked out the velvet and satin fabric and want you to all look pretty for the wedding.” My mother insisted.
After several fittings, the outfits were ready, and the dressmaker came to drop off the clothing, at our guesthouse. She did not leave but stood silently at the side of the room.
I immediately understood that she expected us to pay for it.
“We need to pay for this?’ Moshe was angry. “That doesn’t make sense. I don’t want to. Your mother needs to take care of this.”
There was no way I would ask my parents to pay for this.
“They already paid for enough,” I said, as Moshe reluctantly took out a checkbook and paid the dressmaker.
“I refuse to allow you to dress the baby in his outfit.” Moshe insisted as we were getting ready for the wedding.
“Please let me.” I pleaded with Moshe. “I am so embarrassed.”
“Let your parents see how unfair it was of them to make us pay for this.” He responded. “I don’t let you dress him.”
I left for the wedding mortified. What would everybody think of me, showing up for an elegant wedding with my son dressed in his navy and forest green knit outfit, instead of the black velvet and cream outfit that was sewn for him?
I brushed off my sister’s questions, as my mother looked at me from afar, her blue clear eyes glancing quizzically from me to my son and back.
I did not explain, though everything inside of me wanted to say the truth.
I had been taught to be quiet
I did not want to upset anyone.
It was just two weeks to Passover and I was sitting at the sewing machine well past midnight, furiously sewing clothing for the children, my shoulders hunched over the beige machine that was placed on the kitchen table. I was now a mother of five, my oldest daughter was seven and I wanted the children to look pretty for the holiday. I had gone to the fabric store a week earlier choosing black and white cotton pique fabric for the boys and girls outfits, with matching flowered trim to use for the girl’s dresses.
“We don’t have enough money for clothing. They will need to make do with what they wore last year.” Moshe had told me when I asked him for money for holiday clothing.
Determined to make sure my children looked nice, I decided to sew them clothing, for a fraction of the price of buying. Now I was exhausted and ready to give up, but I pushed myself harder.
My days were spent caring for the children and now before Passover, I spent hours each day scrubbing the house, cleaning it spotless for the holiday. The only time I had for sewing was late in the evening. I would begin cooking for the holiday next week and was determined to get the sewing done before then, even if it meant sleepless nights.
I finished sewing the five outfits barely a week before the holiday and was ready to begin cooking. The oven was eight years old and had been showing signs of wear for the past year, and now when I turned it on, it remained cold and nothing I tried could get it to work.
“I will buy a new oven.” Moshe proclaimed when he came home that night. “I will buy the best there is.”
I was confused.
Didn’t he tell me there was no money for clothing? How was there money for the most expensive oven?
I didn’t dare ask.
I was quiet as I had been taught.
Seven children were born in quick succession in Israel, and when the oldest was 10 years old, my husband was recruited by a wealthy donor to move to Monsey, NY. The donor was establishing an elite Kollel, an institute for advanced study of the Talmud and tempted us with a generous stipend
My parents were thrilled that we were making the move and promised to build a large home for our growing family.
My father had recently purchased a piece of forested land behind the girl’s school and would use that to build us a brand-new house. It would take three years and the large custom built home was ready. For the past year, Moshe had been going into the house daily on his way to his studies, meeting with the contractor and checking that everything was being built properly, while I went from shop to shop choosing tiles, kitchen, and doors.
My mother-in-law recommended that I buy the tiles from a store in Brooklyn.
“They have a huge selection, I bought the tiles for my house there, you will be able to find everything you need for all the bathrooms and kitchens you are designing.”
As I walked through the store choosing the tiles, many conflicting thoughts began to overwhelm me.
Would my mother approve of this bathroom tile?
Is it too ostentatious or maybe it is too plain.
Will my husband be ok with this design in the master bathroom? I know he wants something specific but he didn’t tell me exactly what he wants.
And will the contractor think that I am making reasonable choices?
And how are the kids at home?
My oldest was 14 and babysitting but I hated leaving her with all the eight kids.
The cacophony of conflicting voices rose to a crescendo as I walked out of the store hours later, heaving a sigh of relief at having completed my task of choosing the tiles.
I never once thought about what I liked.
I knew how to please.
I was trying to be grateful to my parents and to keep my husband happy.
My father would come to Monsey every few months carrying wads of cash to pay for the purchases. “I am building you a two-family home. I want you to rent out the second home, and the basement apartments. I will stop giving you your monthly stipend and you will be able to live off of that.”
My father was speaking to Moshe as we stood in the sawdust-covered frame of the house.
“Don’t tell your siblings how much we are giving you.” My mother insisted later. “It will only cause fights between you. You are getting a lot more than anyone.”
Our new home looked eerily similar to the house my parents had built years back. It had the same large windows at the back of the house and seven large bedrooms on the top floor. The dining room and living room had a similar open layout and the large kitchen had almost identical thermofoil cabinets with granite countertops. The home also came complete with a Passover Kitchen.
The main differences were the rental units. Attached to the right of the house, beyond the double doors, flagstone steps, manicured, and walkway was another smaller and simpler home that we would rent out. The bottom level of the house, which sat level with the ground on one side and several steps down on the other was used for the three smaller rental units.
The house had a doorway on the left that we used to enter the house, ensuring that the front entrance stayed unused and pristine. The entranceway led to a room that we kept for our use. It was a medium-sized ceramic-tiled room, with laminate lockers lining an entire side, and doubled as a mudroom and rec room. The room led to a staircase that opened to the kitchen area on the main floor.
Moshe would collect the rent from the tenants and deposit the money in his bank account. I on the other hand was responsible for the household and the children. It was my job to ensure that the kitchen was well stocked, the food cooked, the house cleaned and the children’s needs taken care of.
Moshe would give me small amounts of money for the purchases I needed to make.
For years, he handled the money and I was responsible for everything else. It was a balance we had found.
But now I was angry.
“I just got a call from the clothing store that the check you gave me to buy a skirt last week bounced. I am mortified.” I confronted Moshe.
I had learned to skimp and barely bought myself clothing but this had never happened before.
Moshe’s face remained expressionless as he handed me a new check to mail to the store.
Though I didn’t know the details of our income or expenses, I knew there had to be a better way. I had enough of just leaving it all to Moshe.
In a fit of fury, I drove to the Chase bank around the corner and instead of going to the teller as I sometimes did, I went straight to the banker and challenged the woman sitting behind the desk.
“How is it possible that this check bounced? Is there not enough money in our account.”
The slim blonde-haired woman, wearing a sky blue sweater looked me up and down and spoke patiently as she turned her computer screen towards me. I leaned forward, my toes squishing into the tops of my shoes, my elbows resting on the desk.
“Here is the amount that you have in the account and there you have the amount you spent. You can see that the numbers don’t match up.”
Despite my frustration, I was thrilled when she told me that I could do this all at home.
I had recently purchased a new laptop for my studies at a college designed for women from the Hasidic community. Now I began using the laptop to monitor the money in my bank account and was very concerned by what I saw.
Although we had thousands of dollars coming in every month from our rental apartments, it was a mess. The children’s tuition was not being paid on time and there were many outstanding bills.
I tried to reason with Moshe.“Why aren’t we paying the bills on time? Won’t we get into trouble?”
“If we don’t pay the heating bill then we can get additional government help to pay our bills and they might forgive our tuition payment if we don’t pay for long enough. And why do you care about this anyway? I have managed this alone for all these years.”
Sputtering in disbelief, I responded “This is how you manage the money. That seems so irresponsible to me. Do we not have enough money to pay for what we need? How much money are you bringing in from Kollel, I don’t see that in the bank account?”
“I don’t need to tell you that and I won’t, ‘’ Was his immediate response. “It doesn’t matter.”
Disheartened but not surprised by his response, I refused to give up and resolved to take charge of our finances. I reviewed the rental income and our expenses and saw that the money was tight. We had just enough to get by. The property taxes, private school, and providing for a family of eleven cost us more than we expected.
Determined to make a difference, despite my misgivings in leaving the children, I soon got a part-time job, which eventually turned full time. When I started getting a regular paycheck. I insisted that I would manage my own money, no longer trusting Moshe to take care of it.
“You can take the rental income, pay the property taxes and tuition and I will take care of the rest.” I declared in a fit of desperation, as I went to open a bank account in my name.
It was more than the finances which were driving us apart. As I started working and going to college, I gained more confidence and insisted on being treated more respectfully. Despite ongoing visits with marriage counselors, things did not improve and I was at my wit’s end.
“I know my marriage is ending, but I am terrified to leave or ask for a divorce since I signed over most of the house to my husband’s non-profit.”
I had left work during my lunch break and was seated in the darkly furnished office of the matrimonial attorney, several months before I would leave the house.
“You have a serious problem. We will need to look at the part you do own jointly and see if we can split that.” The attorney proposed. “But whatever you do, don’t leave the house. You will then risk losing all of it.”
“You can not leave your husband, I know you are thinking of it, but don’t you dare.” My father was insisting as I heard the sound of his footsteps trudging up the stairway.
“There is no way. You will ruin the shidduchim for your children, they will never get reputable matches. And just so you know, I will no longer be giving you the $700 a month I was giving you for babysitting, that is over.”
When my youngest was born a year earlier, my mother had offered to supplement the babysitting cost. “I want to be sure my grandson gets the best care possible.” She said as she nudged my father to give me a check.
I didn’t know that it would be used to convince me to stay in the marriage.
When I left my marital home with my four younger children to spend the holidays with my brother just a few months later, I couldn’t imagine that it would be the last time I would enter the home as its owner.
I left in the middle of the night, with the help of a friend away from the forbidding eyes of my husband and older children. It was during those days that I would finally decide to leave my marriage, doing whatever I could to keep my children with me.
“Can you please lend me $15,000? I need it to pay the attorney, I need to be in court next week, otherwise, I am sure to lose the children”
Despite my hesitancy in making the call, I was on the phone with my father, hopeful that he would help me.
“I don’t have any money for you. You are sick. You need to go to the hospital now.” I heard him say impatiently
And then the phone was silent. He had hung up on me. Devastated but still determined, I knew I would find another way. I spent hours calling and emailing old and new friends until I finally raised the money I needed for the marital attorney, ensuring that I got custody of the children.
A few short weeks later, I ran out of all the money I had raised
“Your parents told me to tell you that if you go to the Rabbi to work this out, they will pay for everything. You have no choice.” I received a call from a local askan, the Rabbi’s assistant.
Feeling secure since I now had custody of the children, I hesitantly agreed to meet with the three Rabbis assigned to me.
Several months into the deliberations, my husband continued to claim complete ownership of the house.
“There were four occasions since my wife left me that my father-in-law called and told me to stay in the house with the older children. Your assertion that the house belongs to my wife is wrong. My in-laws bought it for us and now they want me to stay there.” Moshe insisted. “And here are the dates her father called me called me.”
“She is welcome to come home. Her parents want her to come home too. And, it all belongs to the non-profit in any case. There is nothing you can do.”
Sitting across from my husband at a large oak table in the Rabbi’s office, books lining the walls across from my husband, brought back memories to the first time we met so many years back.
At 18, I felt so helpless sitting across him at the dark oak table. I was forced to agree to marry whomever my parents choose for me.
A man who demanded a handsome fee.
I had no skills, or education to support myself financially and was forced to depend on my parents and my future husband.
Now at 42, I did have choices. I had a college degree, a job, and most importantly a voice.
I could choose to comply, to go back to my husband, to the big beautiful house, and the financial support of my parents.
Or I could choose myself. I could choose to create a life of freedom and independence, separate from the expectations of my family and my community.
I did choose myself.
The last few years have been tumultuous and full of upheaval as I take a path that no woman in my ancestral lineage has ever taken, leaving my dowry behind.
Choosing myself over the financial support of my parents has one of the most life-affirming choices I have made.
It had allowed me to spread my wings, explore new experiences, and connect with my true inner strength.
