I was drowning in shame and humiliation. Couldn’t there be another way to get married?
And my world went dark. I tried to imagine the most frugal version of it all. The smallest hall. The oldest-style shtreimel. Ribbono shel Olam! Me? A 22-year-old bochur? Forty thousand dollars?
One thing was clear. I wasn’t going to find the money in my parents’ home.
I won’t complain about my childhood. We had a happy home, but we were poor in a way that you only read about in stories.
Our apartment, like the other apartments in the eggbox-shaped buildings of Ramot Polin, was designed so that neighbors couldn’t look into others’ homes, but those slanted walls made our apartment feel even smaller.
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