“Frieda.” Roisy called me one Saturday night. “I’m in absolute shock. I don’t know how to ask you this...People are saying you are getting divorced. Is it...true? I spent shabbes afternoon at my mother’s and they were saying something about you running away?” “We’re not getting divorced,” I told her. “We’ve had some issues…I can’t explain…but it’s not true.” “Oh, good, I’m relieved to hear. I said it couldn’t be. Frieda, you were so happily married! I had never seen you as happy as your husband made you.”I began to hear back from others too, and I felt it everywhere I went. When I passed women, they looked at me. When I shopped, I could see them watching me from the corner of their eyes. My siblings called to tell me that people were gossiping about me, my divorce, and speculating what the problem was. Facts spilled with fiction, and a vague image formed in the public eye of a woman who was unstable and did not know what she wanted of her life, and her husband’s noble efforts to save her from herself.Esther Matti also called me. “I didn’t know. Some of us in the family knew…I didn’t. All I can say is: I’m so sad for you. I don’t know why, it just seems life is so unfair to you. I’m praying for you.”Prayers were, regrettably, not going to help me. I had to try to comply, hide any traces of deviance, and stay out of trouble one day at a time.