It was the first rain after months of dry heat, and Rivka stood by her window, pressing a trembling hand to the cool glass. The scent of earth rising with the rain almost undid her. She had promised herself she wouldn't cry anymore over Yael’s betrayal, but tears have their own will sometimes, like seeds blown loose in a sudden wind.
Yael had been her closest friend since they sat side by side in second grade, practicing aleph-bet songs and giggling through Shabbat dinners. And then last winter—without warning—Yael had shared one of Rivka’s most painful secrets, a vulnerability entrusted to her alone. It wasn't cruelty, Yael had said later. Just a slip of the tongue. But the damage had been done. The whisper of it traveled through their small neighborhood like smoke, leaving Rivka isolated and raw.
She had built walls after that. High, thick ones fortified with anger so she wouldn’t have to feel the betrayal again. She told herself she was safer this way—alone and untouched.
A sharp knock on the door startled her. Wiping at her face, Rivka braced herself and opened it to find Miriam, the young woman from two doors down, smiling sheepishly and holding a bundle wrapped in gauzy blue cloth.
"I baked too many honey cakes," Miriam said, shifting awkwardly. "Thought you might want some."
It was such a small thing. But the purity of it—the simple act of kindness without expectation—crushed something heavy inside Rivka’s chest. She blinked rapidly, accepting the offering with a murmured thanks. Miriam hummed a bright tune as she walked away, one Rivka recognized from old psalms sung in shul. Laughter, rain, kindness — little things, but they cracked the hardness around her heart.
She sat at the kitchen table, cradling a slice of warm honey cake between her hands. The first bite was sweet, laced with rosemary and something wild like lemon zest. As she chewed, one of the verses she'd learned long ago resurfaced suddenly, unbidden and piercing:
"Bear with one another and forgive one another. If anyone has a grievance against another, forgive—as G-d has forgiven you."
The words curled around her like a shawl.
Rivka set down the half-eaten slice. Forgive? The thought rebelled against everything she had built to keep herself safe. Forgiveness felt like weakness, like offering herself up to be wounded again.
But as the rain drummed on the windows, Rivka realized the pain of carrying anger was heavier than the risk of forgiveness. It was shackling her far more tightly than Yael’s betrayal ever could.
Rivka leaned her head down against the table and cried—not tears of anger this time, but of surrender. She whispered into the still, rain-soaked house, “Ribbono shel Olam, help me forgive, even if my heart is slow to heal."
That night, she wrote a letter to Yael. She didn't excuse the betrayal or erase the ache. But she also didn't let the pain speak louder than the hope inside her. She wrote honestly, simply: "I have been hurt, but I choose to release this hurt. I hope someday we find peace again."
She slipped it under Yael’s door at dawn, leaving it there like a seed planted in the wet earth, uncertain if it would ever bloom.
Returning home, Rivka stood once more by the window. Across the muddy courtyard, she saw small buds clustering along the bare branches of the fig tree her father had planted years ago. Tiny, fragile signs of life after long waiting.
Hope, she thought, often begins too small to see. But it's growing, even so.
And for the first time in many months, Rivka smiled—not because everything was fixed, but because she knew now she was never alone in her healing. The path of forgiveness was threaded with G-d’s tender patience and quiet presence, every wavering step blessed.
She pressed her hand once more to the glass, whispering a soft prayer of thanks into the morning, as the fig tree bravely shook rain from its tender new leaves.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
It was the first rain after months of dry heat, and Rivka stood by her window, pressing a trembling hand to the cool glass. The scent of earth rising with the rain almost undid her. She had promised herself she wouldn't cry anymore over Yael’s betrayal, but tears have their own will sometimes, like seeds blown loose in a sudden wind.
Yael had been her closest friend since they sat side by side in second grade, practicing aleph-bet songs and giggling through Shabbat dinners. And then last winter—without warning—Yael had shared one of Rivka’s most painful secrets, a vulnerability entrusted to her alone. It wasn't cruelty, Yael had said later. Just a slip of the tongue. But the damage had been done. The whisper of it traveled through their small neighborhood like smoke, leaving Rivka isolated and raw.
She had built walls after that. High, thick ones fortified with anger so she wouldn’t have to feel the betrayal again. She told herself she was safer this way—alone and untouched.
A sharp knock on the door startled her. Wiping at her face, Rivka braced herself and opened it to find Miriam, the young woman from two doors down, smiling sheepishly and holding a bundle wrapped in gauzy blue cloth.
"I baked too many honey cakes," Miriam said, shifting awkwardly. "Thought you might want some."
It was such a small thing. But the purity of it—the simple act of kindness without expectation—crushed something heavy inside Rivka’s chest. She blinked rapidly, accepting the offering with a murmured thanks. Miriam hummed a bright tune as she walked away, one Rivka recognized from old psalms sung in shul. Laughter, rain, kindness — little things, but they cracked the hardness around her heart.
She sat at the kitchen table, cradling a slice of warm honey cake between her hands. The first bite was sweet, laced with rosemary and something wild like lemon zest. As she chewed, one of the verses she'd learned long ago resurfaced suddenly, unbidden and piercing:
"Bear with one another and forgive one another. If anyone has a grievance against another, forgive—as G-d has forgiven you."
The words curled around her like a shawl.
Rivka set down the half-eaten slice. Forgive? The thought rebelled against everything she had built to keep herself safe. Forgiveness felt like weakness, like offering herself up to be wounded again.
But as the rain drummed on the windows, Rivka realized the pain of carrying anger was heavier than the risk of forgiveness. It was shackling her far more tightly than Yael’s betrayal ever could.
Rivka leaned her head down against the table and cried—not tears of anger this time, but of surrender. She whispered into the still, rain-soaked house, “Ribbono shel Olam, help me forgive, even if my heart is slow to heal."
That night, she wrote a letter to Yael. She didn't excuse the betrayal or erase the ache. But she also didn't let the pain speak louder than the hope inside her. She wrote honestly, simply: "I have been hurt, but I choose to release this hurt. I hope someday we find peace again."
She slipped it under Yael’s door at dawn, leaving it there like a seed planted in the wet earth, uncertain if it would ever bloom.
Returning home, Rivka stood once more by the window. Across the muddy courtyard, she saw small buds clustering along the bare branches of the fig tree her father had planted years ago. Tiny, fragile signs of life after long waiting.
Hope, she thought, often begins too small to see. But it's growing, even so.
And for the first time in many months, Rivka smiled—not because everything was fixed, but because she knew now she was never alone in her healing. The path of forgiveness was threaded with G-d’s tender patience and quiet presence, every wavering step blessed.
She pressed her hand once more to the glass, whispering a soft prayer of thanks into the morning, as the fig tree bravely shook rain from its tender new leaves.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
