Category: Grace and Kindness

Next to Normal – Tissue Alert

August 19, 2026

amartinitoast.com, Broken Heart, Grace and Kindness, Marissa Jaffe Maddalena, Marissa, Rebecca, Zachary, Rebecca Jaffe Rosen, Tragic Divorce, Zachary Jaffe, Zachary Jaffe

I’ve mentioned the Broadway show, Next to Normal, at least one other time in my blog, but, for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about it. It was my favorite and Zack’s favorite, and I’m pretty certain we saw it together twice. Definitely not a feel-good, dance in the aisles, typical crowd-pleaser like Hairspray or Mamma Mia, the impact of Next to Normal was significant and profound.

The show told the story of a mother, a father, a 16-year-old daughter, and a son who was only alive in the mother’s mind and memory. Brilliantly played by Aaron Tveit, Gabe had died from an intestinal obstruction when he was only 8 months old, and Diana, his mom, could never heal. How could she? Can a parent ever heal from the loss of a child?

The dad, Dan, suppressed his pain throughout, never even saying Gabe’s name. The daughter, Natalie, bore the brunt of everything, knowing that her presence magnified Gabe’s absence. Smart, funny, witty, and carrying such hurt of her own, she had to find her own way.

And Diana, the warrior, trying so unsuccessfully to navigate life through those demons that rivaled every one of Odysseus’s monstrous barricades and every level of Dante’s Inferno. Her trauma, her grief, her anguish, her heartache, and her all-around suffering led to a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder (with a side of delusional episodes).

I think, actually I know, that Jay told the kids that I was bipolar. I am not, but, if I was, so what? Do you abandon somebody for that? My own mother, when she was in her mid-50s, had a nervous breakdown and spent a few weeks in the Carrier Clinic. I remember my father coming over to either my house or my sister’s house, completely distraught and frightened that she was going to hurt herself. We didn’t abandon her. We got her the help she needed.

Jay’s brother tried to kill himself at his wife’s cousin’s house on Passover. Nobody stopped talking to him; everybody just kicked it into high gear to get him the help he needed. Shit happens.

When I found out that Jay told everybody I was bipolar, I just kept asking my sister friend, Beth, “When does the manic come?” Not minimizing those who are afflicted with the difficult but treatable illness, I wanted to know when the sadness would leave. But, how could the sadness leave when I lost all that ever mattered?

In Next to Normal, there is a song, and the words never left me. The song, Light, shares the message that it is better to feel something, even pain, than not to feel anything at all:

“Give me pain, if that’s what’s real, it’s the price we pay to feel.”

I had mentioned in my last blog that I was going for Evenity injections to build some bone for my osteoporosis. When the lovely Donna was giving me the injections, which were given in both arms and which were more intense than a Covid vaccine, she asked me if they hurt. I responded with, “Give me pain, if that’s what’s real, it’s the price we pay to feel.”

The next line of the song says:

“The price of love is loss, but still we pay. We love anyway.”

My kids were all that ever mattered to me, and I loved so completely, so overbearingly, so adoringly, and maybe so unrealistically. I knew that, from an early age, Jay was contaminating my young seeds and that my perfect sprouts wouldn’t be mine forever. I believed my entire life that I was undeserving, but I stand by the lyric, “The price of love is loss, but still we pay. We love anyway.”

As the school year is about to begin for so many, including myself, I want to express how thankful I am to be a teacher. For nearly two decades, I experienced the unparalleled privilege of staying home to raise my family. Then, these recent nearly two decades brought me to a career and a school that gave me a chance to showcase and share my knowledge and creativity with learners who have always been “the best platform from which to jump beyond myself.” I am so grateful for and to my colleagues, my students, and a district that has allowed me to create a program I’m proud to call my own.

Bob’s grandsons, Griffin and Jimmy, are starting kindergarten this year, and, though I don’t know it for a fact because I was never told of her birth, I think my granddaughter, Emma, is also starting kindergarten. May they all take this first step on their academic journeys with curiosity, with kindness, with playfulness, with enthusiasm, and with friendships.

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Clear Eyes

May 28, 2026

A Mom Without Her Kids, Clear Eyes, Grace and Kindness, Marissa, Rebecca, Zachary, marissasurgery.wordpress.com, Tragic Divorce

I’m not holding back anymore. I just can’t. Reading through all of these letters now, with clear eyes, just shows me how frightened I was at what Jay was capable of and what he was actually doing to me. Setting me up to lose my grown children (though plans began when they were much younger), corralling my sister in the process (which was not difficult), and banking on my weakness and the reality that my mother wouldn’t have my back, showed the precise level of his malignity. Temple Beth Shalom and most of Livingston not only bought his venom hook, line, and sinker, but they couldn’t wait to see or hear about the next bite that the snake would take out of me. My agony was their entertainment.

Let me be clear when I say that I was not a good wife. As an explanation and not an excuse, I only wanted to be loved, and he just couldn’t love me. My spirit was too much for him, so he had to kill it. Again, I will elaborate further if anybody asks, including my grandchildren. Days of secrets are over.

Though I was not a good wife, I did support his career and help him advance quickly in his law career. He was an exemplary lawyer and employee, working round the clock to get the job done. Though not the “schmooze on the golf course type,” he was always the one “chained to the desk,” as the partners used to say.

I have no problem giving a compliment to somebody who has destroyed me. Two things can be true at the same time, and Jay, albeit a monster, was/is a good lawyer. I’ve also said that he was a good father, though I don’t know if a good father would encourage (actually embolden) his children to sever ties with their mother.

On the last Mother’s Day before the divorce officially started, Jay gave me a card that said, “You’re a wonderful mother and make great children.” I’ll post a picture of that card in one of my blogs, along with the cards from the 3 who matter most. How we went from praise to torture in a couple of months just reinforces my belief that the bomb was prepared and primed, just waiting for the go-ahead to pull the lynchpin.

Now, here comes the letter from my first lawyer to one of Howard Felcher’s associates, and it’s important to share. I tell my students that being vulnerable is a strength, but it’s a character trait that I’ve only recently acquired. It doesn’t make somebody weak; in fact, it is empowering.

Please be advised that Ms. Jaffe intends to borrow the money to pay the $25,500 credit card debt, just as she borrowed $2,000 last month to pay for emergent dental care. She is endeavoring to borrow these funds from friends due to Mr. Jaffe’s ultimatum that he would otherwise institute criminal proceedings against her for something that he has been aware of for approximately six years, which he conveniently has decided to pursue during the divorce. To clarify the record, the credit card bills have been sent to the marital residence, not a post office box.

Your statement that Ms. Jaffe has disposable funds available to her to pay the debt is preposterous. Ms. Jaffe’s monthly expenses exceed her approximate $3,600 net income, which is why she had trouble paying the credit card bill. Moreover, in the month of February she was forced to miss a paycheck when she had unexcused time off from work to stay with Marissa during her most recent hospitalization. The credit card debt was incurred to pay marital bills due to Mr. Jaffe’s withholding of support from Ms. Jaffe during the marriage. The parties’ Case Information Statements reflect Mr. Jaffe in control of all of the marital savings available to pay this obligation.

The positions taken by Mr. Jaffe and his threats of criminal prosecution make it clear that he is not interested in reaching a fair and amicable resolution of this matter. He has also ignored my request for an additional retainer to hire a forensic accountant (which is only further stalling the case from moving toward conclusion). Therefore, I will file an application with the Court seeking the payment of these retainers. I will also seek counsel fees related to the motion that is necessitated by Mr. Jaffe’s refusal to cooperate.

It is most unfortunate that Mr. Jaffe s insisting on proceeding in this manner.

So much to unpack here, including the emergent dental care, but that can wait for now. This next line, however, can’t wait.

For the two in Livingston, my real sisters, who stayed, who loved, who gave me Breath and Oxygen and yes, a retainer when Jay did in fact press criminal charges against me (which were dropped the second the judge disgustedly said the charges out loud), I love you and I am vertical because of you. Thank you.

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Rebecca’s Law School Personal Statement, from November of 2013

May 27, 2026

Grace and Kindness, Rebecca Jaffe Rosen

As I had mentioned, the only way for me to see anything from the past is to transcribe it from my old MacBook dinosaur. Reading through some letters, applications, and personal essays of my own kids and of friends’ kids is difficult, especially when I know that I either wrote these pieces in their entirety or I helped enormously with the process. I did not, however, write this one, but I must tell you that it was written only days before Rebecca left me for good.

“For better or for worse” is probably one of the most ambiguous and indefinable cliches ever said, and I often wondered who was the author of such a vague statement. Whether vicariously admiring that physically unblemished couple on television as they took their ersatz vows, or personally watching my parents’ traditional wedding video, I questioned the meaning of those five unclear words. It is the grey area that lies within the “for better or for worse” that has always intrigued me and led to this curiosity and need to label exactly what it meant.

Growing up in a relatively typical suburb in New Jersey provided me with the opportunity to have front row seats to many pretentious and insincere performances. Though my own childhood was certainly happy, and though I was born to parents who loved me fully and unconditionally, it wasn’t until I was a teenager when I noticed that the two people I loved the most were utilizing and perseverating on the “for better or for worse.” They were remaining stagnant in their marriage not only because they didn’t want to disturb the peace in my siblings’ and my world; they themselves were suffering that cliche that seems to subconsciously intimidate and threaten husbands and wives. Though my parents finally began their divorce proceedings in July, I feel this need to pursue, understand, and hopefully negate the reluctance of some people to separate.

When I was a freshman in high school, I took a course in which our teacher allowed us to argue questions we got wrong on a test to explain why we believed we should get the points back. On one test, my classmates were arguing a question that I had gotten right. Our teacher was not amused by their objections, so I decided to raise my hand and present an argument that, though not directly helpful to me, I thought would help my classmates. My teacher liked my answer, gave the whole class credit for the question, and suggested I become a lawyer.

I’ve been considering law ever since then, but I was never naive enough to think that winning arguments was, by itself, a credential to be a lawyer. So, I thought I would probe further. When I was a sophomore in high school, I took a business law class. We held a mock trial in an actual courtroom, and I signed up to be the lawyer representing the plaintiff. The weeks of preparation before the trial were filled with researching the issues and relevant laws, along with interviewing and taking depositions from my classmates who took on the roles of my client and the witnesses. Trying to figure out the strategy of the opposing counsel and put together my strategy accordingly was positively invigorating. I won the case, and I loved it! It was theatrical, intellectual, and challenging. After that, I knew I had a keen interest in entering the courtroom professionally.

During the first semester of my junior year of college, I took another business law class. While many of my classmates dreaded the class, I looked forward to it. I found it to be fascinating. The bulk of the class was focused on contract law, and the exact material that my classmates found to be so dry was actually further whetting my interest in heading right to law school after college. I signed up for an LSAT class immediately following the completion of the course.

The practical application of the law to my real life through my parents’ divorce, along with my academic experiences, leaves no doubt in my mind that the law should be welcomed and not feared. Though the divorce is still in process, I can already see the vital importance in the role that the law is playing. I want to help other families make it through to a better time in their lives, so that they, like my family, can appreciate all of the good and the protection that the law can provide. So, “for better or for worse,” I am hoping to be a member of the ___________ Law School Class of 2017 so I can make this plan my reality.

My feelings are so all over the place with this. It’s important to note that my divorce went on for more than 2 years after this, and that I certainly did not “appreciate all of the good and the protection that the law can provide.” As I wrote just a couple of blogs ago, my “perfect storm” of a life, marriage, and divorce had my judge working for Jay’s firm months after our tragic 3 year divorce was finalized. Protected by the law? Not this girl.

I’ll be sharing a note that Betsy Bresnick, my first lawyer, wrote to somebody at Howard Felcher’s office. Howard Felcher, as you recall, was Jay’s malignancy of a lawyer. You will read about how Jay had my car repossessed and how he tried to press criminal charges against me for opening up a credit card in his name six years prior to our divorce. You will read it all.

I have no doubt that Rebecca is a stellar lawyer, and, by the way, she chose to pursue family law. I also have no doubt that she is a shark, but I would bet the farm she wouldn’t put any other mother through what Howard Felcher put me through. Irony at its finest.

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Letters from the Past

May 5, 2026

Grace and Kindness, Tragic Divorce, Healing, A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, amartinitoast.com, Marissa, Rebecca, Zachary

My email address used to be mjmrzjaffe@aol.com. When we bought our first computer, lifetimes ago, complete with dial up modem, I created our email address. Of course, it would have our initials, as EVERYTHING to me was about the family. The kids were so young then, and they created adorable screen names, too. Zack was dragonballzack9, Rebecca was mishamooey (my nickname for her), and Marissa’s was Rissie123.

The account was under Jay’s name, since he paid for it. He paid for everything, as he reminded the kids and me so often. I had no money, as I didn’t work, and what we had was marital (or so I thought). Now I’ll be clear and tell you that I am awful with money and I spend it like I’m going to the electric chair. Nothing has changed on that front.

That email address contained about 15 years of love. There were hundreds of letters from the kids from the time they were small, spanning to when they were young adults in college. Words of laughter and love and gratitude and adoration, I should have printed every one of them. But, true to my “perfect storm,” once the divorce was underway and the plan for this longshot of a pony was clearly to be put down, part of the process was to take away that email address and all of its contents. I called AOL, but they said that the account wasn’t created in my name those 15+ years back, and thus, I no longer had access to it.

I did have a few notes on my work email, but nothing major. And, recently, I plugged in my very old MacBook. I can’t do much on it, but I can access Microsoft Word to read. The dinosaur doesn’t connect to anything, but I do have some files to peruse. Some of the kids’ college and grad school application essays are here, along with some essays I wrote about life and several letters I wrote as the divorce process was beginning. I’ll begin by sharing this one, as it’s important for me to show who I am so that maybe, just maybe, this tapestry of terror that Jay and my sister wove for me can begin to unravel.

My Dearest Jay,

I’ve been listening to that song, John Denver’s Seasons of the Heart, over and over, and I think it’s a true depiction of our story. Our story was such a good one, especially 3 particular chapters, and I know that we will both make sure that both sides of the book jacket stay strong and in tact to weather the storm ahead and protect the contents of those 3 very special chapters.

I know you have been waiting for me to “file the damn papers already,” and in my quest to figure out why you wanted me to do it so desperately, I thought that you might go ahead and do it. I know that you went to see Gary Skoloff (I didn’t realize you needed the biggest gun in the East, but maybe there is more to this than I know), and the reason that I know this is because I will be using Betsy Bresnick at that same firm. She is a childhood friend of Jackie’s, and she gave me a free consultation.

Speaking of Betsy, her retainer is $10,000. You know how this stuff works better than I do, but if we work things out quickly, we can get some of that back. As you know, I do not have that kind of money, and it would be unfair for me to ask my mother for it when you will be using our money for your person’s retainer. While we are far from millionaires, I know that you make a decent draw at the new firm, and the car and expense perks are generous. I also know that you have many bank accounts from which you pull, deposit, and transfer money, so I’m sure you’ll be able to finance the retainer that I need to give. After that, I know it is a 50/50 spit of everything, with many years of documents, bills, and bank accounts needing to be presented.

If you haven’t figured this out yet, I am not planning on being difficult here. I am fully aware that a third of the dissolution of our marriage is my doing, a third is your doing, and another third are the other issues (family, people, money, and illnesses) that interfered along the way. Maybe we were too young when we started our story, but man, those 3 chapters made everything worth it, didn’t they?

Nothing will EVER change the fact that I will ALWAYS love you. “It’s just some things that mean so much, and we just don’t feel the same.”

Marla

Folks, keep reading this blog. Keep sharing it. Keep commenting on it.

Much love,

Marla

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True Peace

April 30, 2026

A Mom Without Her Kids, amartinitoast.com, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Grace and Kindness, Grace and Kindness, Healing, Marissa, Rebecca, Zachary, PTSD, Tragic Divorce, Zachary Jaffe

“True peace is not merely the absence of tension; it is the presence of justice.” – Martin Luther King, Jr.

When I wrote my last blog entry, a tribute to Dr. DeGraaff, I went into my treasure trove of pictures from the past. I was looking for the picture of Doreen, holding Marissa a few hours after she was born. I hadn’t submerged myself in that reservoir of riches since 2023, when my friend, Janice, patiently and heroically helped me box up pictures, letters, projects, and albums for the kids. She was dual mission oriented that night – the first being to complete the task at hand, and the second to keep me from finally succumbing to the implosion of my heart.

Rebecca lives 4.25 miles away from me, so, naturally, Janice’s plan was to bring everything to Rebecca’s house. All 3 kids would receive their childhood honeypots in brand new Samsonite suitcases, each filled with immeasurable valuables and a chamber of my heart. I have to especially note a storybook Rebecca created in the 2nd grade, illustrating and sharing the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. The dedication was to me, and it read, “For my Mom, who, despite everything, thinks I’m just right.”

For those of you who don’t know, you might be guessing correctly in that the delivery of the swag bags was an unsuccessful one. Rebecca’s husband did answer the door, but Rebecca stayed far away. Janice was pretty certain that Scott had been grilling on the deck, and that there was a beautiful cherub playing nearby.

It is important to mention that Scott’s grilling was not limited to the meat on the Weber. He had a bunch of questions, (how could he not), and he told Janice that Rebecca and I are estranged. Janice said she was well aware of that. He asked her, “Why now?” and Janice spoke correctly when she explained that now that Rebecca is a mom herself, I thought she might want to have her valuables. Maybe they thought I was dying, and maybe they were hoping for that, but my friend, Janice, just like other friends, some lifelong and some new, was shaken to her core seeing firsthand the reality of my pain and of this door that the kids have bolted shut.

I don’t know my son-in-law, but he looks like such a lovely human being. I know he’s a pediatric nurse, which is telling, and, as the world is a small one, Bob’s friend, Mike, is the head EMT at Chilton Hospital and knows Scott well. Over dinner one night, he was emphatically praising Scott’s kindness and skills, and I think he was surprised to hear that Scott is my son-in-law. Perhaps conversations between them, which I’m certain consisted of Scott’s justifiable boasting about his three beautiful girls and, sadly, his dad’s passing so young from ALS, led to talk about parents and grandparents. Mike and his wife recently became grandparents, and maybe Scott mentioned that his kids only had 2 – Rebecca’s dad and his mom.

That treasure trove did hold joy, memories, blessings, love, warmth, and life, but it also held 3 documents. One was a letter I wrote to Zack, telling him how sorry I was for all the pain the divorce was causing him (and my role in it for being so needy and reliant on him). I even signed a contract saying that I would pull back on that. Next, there was a letter I wrote to Zack’s therapist, with the help of my therapist at the time, Dr. Rhonda Greenberg, figuratively gutting my innards to get him to (as a therapist should do) help reunite Zack and me. Dr. David Velder, yet another Orthodox Jew allowing himself to be an active and pathetic pawn in Jay and his lawyer’s plan to get me to Thelma and Louise it. I would get those EOBs weekly from my insurance company, grateful that his visits were to the therapist and not to medical facilities where he was having CT Scans and MRIs and terrifying diagnoses. G-d knows and Horizon Blue Cross and Blue Shield of New Jersey knows I’ve suffered through way too many of those, not knowing if my son was healthy.

And, speaking of insurance companies and not knowing if my child was whole, on June 30th, 2015, I received a call from my car insurance company. They wanted to talk to me about the accident, but I hadn’t had an accident. Beginning to shake because I quickly realized that Zack must have been in an accident in his car that I leased and insured for him, I just remember crying and screaming into the phone, “Is my son alive? Is my son okay? Please, tell me that my son is alive.” They had no information for me.

Suffice it to say that the ensuing hours were terrifying and scarring. I’m not sure how I even found out that Zack was okay, but I will say that the person with the most grace was the lady from Liberty Mutual, who called me back later that day to check on Zack (and me). I had told her, through tears that only another mother could understand, that I was going through a heinous divorce and that Zack had left me. I said I didn’t even know how to find out if he was okay, as the divorce was so contentious.

Now, let’s get to that third letter, the letter that Jay’s lawyer, Howard Felcher, wrote to my lawyer after my lawyer wrote him a letter saying how nefarious and repugnant it was not to tell me that Zack was in an awful car accident. My lawyer’s partner, in practice for nearly 7 decades, said that it was, by far, the most odious and repulsive letter he had ever read.

Allow me to insert the beginning of the letter:

Dear Mr. Knapp,

Your client certainly had to be aware that the issuance of such a letter would engender a response. My client has been constrained throughout the course of this litigation not to make your client’s conduct with respect to her children an issue to be openly litigated. Your letter of even date has compelled a specific and direct response.

This letter, which I will share with anybody who wants to see it, goes on to launch such ridiculous vignettes. It’s as if he took 2 thimbles of the truth and created a vat of humbug. This letter was in the queue, and he was waiting for some reason to get it to the front of the line. It was hateful and spiteful, and, reading it those weeks ago with eyes that are now both fearless and clear, I can’t believe that I let it send me into a spiral of darkness and terror. It did just what it was intended to do.

Howard Felcher is a bully, but he got Jay’s job done. It’s everything you read about him in the reviews online. I can certainly put those here as well, but, to summarize, they mention losing jobs, losing custody of kids, losing lifelong savings, and, in some cases, being jailed.

I’ll end today’s blog by saying that, after Zack’s car was fixed, I took the car away from him. I listened to a former friend of mine, who, like many with whom I surrounded myself, was a bully. I don’t know why I always looked to the bully, but I think it had something to do with feeling protected around and by them. Truth be told, these bullies never had my back; they were merely disturbers looking to have a front row center orchestra seat in a play in which I didn’t want to be performing.

It was uncharacteristic of me not to give the car back, as I only wanted my kids to love me. Even though it was so inhumane that I wasn’t told about the accident, I was still willing to be an emotional doormat. Judge Casale, who was our judge and who never missed an opportunity to verbally abuse me and make me cry, said he wouldn’t talk to me either if I took his car away.

On December 7th, 2015, almost 3 years after first filing for divorce and after Howard Felcher didn’t respond for almost 6 months to my lawyer’s letters and settlement proposals, Judge Casale said, “I’m beginning to think that maybe Mrs. Jaffe is not the problem here.” Sure, my life was ruined as I knew it, losing all that ever mattered to me, and he first realized it then? He said we would be divorcing that day, but, there were some last minute fixes to be made on the paperwork. Proposing that we could just write the changes in by hand, my PTSD armor of sadness said, “Absolutely not!”

Two days later, on December 9th, 2015, Judge Casale wrapped up our case saying how difficult it had been and to keep in mind that there are kids involved and hopefully, somehow, healing could take place.

On June 13th, 2016, Judge Casale joined Jay’s law firm, Greenbaum Rowe Smith & Davis.

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DD

March 23, 2026

Grace and Kindness

Dearest Doreen,

On Friday night, November 24, 1989, you were an OB/GYN resident at Saint Barnabas, and I was in (false) labor. I was 23, nervous, and completely agog for the arrival of our firstborn. Our best friends were due to arrive at our apartment on Center Grove Road in Randolph, but the (false) labor gods clearly had other plans for us.

I remember telling our downstairs neighbor, Donna Grumka, to let Trish and John in. There was no way that my nugget was arriving that night, and I knew, with every degree of certainty, that we’d be back to open the Kanga Rocka Roo and the Snugli baby carrier that Trish and John bought us. Jewish “law” says you can’t open gifts before the baby is born healthy, but I figured that 39 weeks was far enough along to break a little rule.

When we arrived at the hospital and I was all checked in, the most adorable, brilliant, kind, and comforting strawberry-blonde-haired goddess told me that she was the resident who would be monitoring me and assessing my progress. This goddess understood that I was just a baby having a baby, and she told me that she delivered her first when she, too, was quite young. As she checked to see if I was dilated, she so gently let me know that I wasn’t dilated and that what I was experiencing were Braxton Hicks contractions. I asked her if she knew how long until I delivered my heart, and she said she was pretty certain it would be sometime that weekend. While excited beyond measure, I needed to know that she would be on call, as in the hour that we spent together, I knew I was in the presence of greatness. She promised that she would be, and she sure was.

Dr. DeGraaff (Doreen), you were there when, after a weekend of back labor, Mike Milano brought my baby girl, Marissa Faith, into the world at 7:21 AM on Monday, November 27th. Four centimeters was all I would dilate, so he performed a C-section to safely deliver her to us. Truth be told, he actually performed a figurative defibrillation on me, because that was the day my heart officially began beating.

I remember you visiting me in my room, and you held my gorgeous girl with such love. At that point, I think you had only had your son, Christopher I believe you told me his name was, and I looked at you with even higher regard, knowing that you balanced motherhood and being a doctor.

We met again when Marissa was a teenager; her skin was heavily blemished, and one of her doctors thought she might have polycystic ovaries. You ran some tests, prescribed some medicine, and promised us that, when she was ready to have a baby, you would immediately put her on Clomid. We arrived at your office with so many questions and so much trepidation, but, true to who you are, we left with our fears assuaged and our hope turbocharged.

From the time Marissa was not quite 16, all the way until she was 24, she endured 8 surgeries and 13 hospital stays. The Ulcerative Colitis diagnosis in 2005 led to the removal of her colon in 2010, and while most girls her age were sporting Longchamp or Coach bags, my warrior wore an ostomy bag for a year. Fortunate enough to have the pioneer of the J-Pouch as her surgeon, Roo’s bag was reversed after a year. What a nightmarish year it was, and the blockages that ensued the next 4 years were pulverizing. I’m sure you know much of this, as you have been her doctor for quite some time. I’m not sure if you read the blog, however; http://www.marissasurgery.wordpress.com is where to find it.

Dr. DeGraaff, Marissa and I have been estranged for some time, which you probably already know. You probably also know that she is married and a mom herself now. Though I don’t even know her second daughter’s name, and I only know her first daughter’s name because a former friend of mine inappropriately and hurtfully shared the information with me, I am so grateful that she was able to conceive, carry, and deliver healthy babies. While I don’t know it for a fact, I’d bet the farm that you played an enormous role in her dream coming true, and I will forever be enamored of and indebted to that strawberry-blonde-haired goddess who was there when my dream came true.

May your retirement bring you all you so richly deserve, and may you enjoy the magic that you have brought to so many. Congratulations!

Marla

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Letter to Melissa, April of 2021 – Not a repost, just a post that I’m finally willing to share

March 19, 2026

Grace and Kindness

Dearest Miss,

Our trip to Florida is over, and I’m tan, relaxed, sad, and reflective. Suffice it to say that our week was inundated with laughs, festive beverages (“I like sweet drinks and I cannot lie”), realizations, appreciation, tears, and both the renewal and continuation of a lifelong
friendship. We figured out who the other is, and we were, pardon the cliché, the ying to each other’s yang.

Miss, from the time I was a little girl, I was always looking for approval. I didn’t mind working twice as hard to get people to love me halfway; I just wanted to be accepted. Did I need to compensate because I was chubby and not the prettiest, or was it that I was missing somebody to tell me I was valued unconditionally? I was smart, that’s for sure, but always being pushed ahead in school just put me so behind emotionally. My lack of confidence and my insecurity became, and in reality still are, paralyzing.

I wish I remembered more about the early years of growing up. Quite honestly, with my memory being as strong as it is, thank Goodness, it begs curiosity how those early years are such an impenetrable blur. Clarity begins to surface as I shudder at Zane Reisman literally
biting my ass when I was 8 years old, and then to Steven Wintner locking me in his basement when I was an early teenager. Truth be told, being locked in that basement was the defining moment of my life, and one from which I could never recover.

I’m not sure what led me to the Wintner house that afternoon; I guess I thought he might actually like me. Little did I know that, together with his friends, I was just the target of a cruel plan, a practical joke, a gangbang. By the time it was over and they released me, I walked the 2 blocks from Commerce Street to Oliver Place, more terrified of the wrath I would incur from my parents than the mental and sexual abuse I had just endured. I couldn’t tell my parents about my ordeal, as I was afraid that they would justifiably retaliate and go after Steven and his friends. I’d be a further outcast, and, maybe even worse, I would upset my parents.

Miss, I’ve been searching for love and for somebody to love me my entire life. I’ve made such poor choices in my quest for finding that man who could make me feel safe and satisfied. Sex is still so unfulfilling for me, and, as you know, I didn’t have my first orgasm until I was 31. I didn’t even know what one was, but how could I when my first experience was so violent and unsolicited? And, my mom, may she rest in peace, never had the “talk” with me, which, especially after my abortion, would have been warranted and appreciated. Instead, I was screamed at, ridiculed, and called names. Oh, wait, let’s not forget that I also had to switch high schools.

I often wonder, though seldom doubt, if Lisa told my kids about my abortion. For a while, I wonder if she even knew, as my parents always feared how she would treat me. Remember, Lisa was in charge. Whom am I kidding, Miss? We both know that, as soon as the moment presented itself, she swooped in with all of the news about my “indiscretions.” I have to laugh though, because when Lisa was a freshman at Cornell, she didn’t come home the first Thanksgiving because her suitemate, Colleen, a preacher’s daughter, was pregnant
and was going to have an abortion. Lisa wanted to stay with her. Go figure that Colleen’s abortion was acceptable to Lisa.

Miss, little by little, you will receive my stories from my past, and, maybe they’ll even be published one day. James Patterson had a book called, Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas, so maybe I should title mine, Curly Top’s Collection for Adorable One. These stories will surprise you, shock you, touch you, enrage you, and empower you. You will marvel at my resilience, and you’ll root for this warrior to attain the victory she so desires and deserves.

Miss, on our trip, I couldn’t help but feel like I should have had so many more stories for you. Sure, we talked non-stop and filled the time with nary a silence, but I should have had so much more to share. There were dozens of people about whom I should have been able to boast and chatter – my 3 kids, my 2 sons-in-law and their families, and, most importantly, my 2 granddaughters. It is so inhumane that I am incomplete, and I am sorry.

I try so hard not to bring stuff up that could dampen or darken the mood; you know I’m a pleaser and an entertainer. Thank you, however, for letting me vent when I needed to and also for subtly being able to point me towards tomorrow. I would sometimes feel the breath come back into my body when I looked over and saw you in the bed next to me.

Finally, Miss, my mom was everywhere in Florida, but I focused on the good times instead of the hurt. Pushing the positive memories straight to the front, I found myself missing her face and her voice terribly. I thought a lot about the last months of her life, and I hoped so
desperately that she didn’t suffer. I often wonder if she knew how much I suffered every day, and, if she did, did she care? Was she allowed to care? Who knows, perhaps she had demons, too? Perhaps there was a basement in which she was locked, or a man who bit her ass when she was just a young girl.

I love you more than you will ever know,

Marla

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Accountability

February 19, 2026

Grace and Kindness, Healing, Practice What We Preach

Everyone is talking about Prince Andrew, the pedophile. He is indeed that. Folks are incredulous that, albeit stripped of his official royal title and now arrested, he is still in “line” to become the King of England. These people, such bigshots slamming Britain, but where are they to address what is happening here, in our country?

There are more black lines of redaction in those Epstein files than there are visible words. Young girls were trafficked, raped, and terrorized, and we’re blacking out names to protect Trump and his wealthy and entitled posse of criminals? Pam Bondi, the Attorney General, reading from her flashcards of hateful insults at a Congressional hearing last week, wouldn’t even look at any of the victims. She turned that hearing into a gaslighting stratagem of, “What’s wrong with you people for even caring about this?” Calling Jamie Raskin, a lifelong public servant, ‘a washed-up loser lawyer” was so appalling, ugly, and insulting not only to him, but also to the Office of the Attorney General that used to carry such clout and honor.

They’re so obsessed with the word loser. That’s their go to, their across the board dig. Anybody, whether it’s a politician, a musician, a talk show host, a journalist, even a prisoner of war who might not agree with them, is immediately called a loser. It’s so ersatz and so preteen.

Jamie Raskin is no loser. In addition to how respectfully and unselfishly he has represented the state of Maryland, he also fought cancer shortly after his son committed suicide. No parent should EVER have to lose a child, in ANY WAY, and trust me when I say that we are not losers. We are gold medalists in an Olympic event in which we don’t want to compete.

Where is the accountability for America’s pedophiles? Where is the decency, the concern, the outrage? Threatening war with Iran, conquering Venezuela, wanting and oftentimes placing the Trump name on every building, airport, tunnel, and landmark that he wants to, with nobody telling him, “It’s not okay, and it’s not going to happen.” Laughing when people are killed, tortured, tossed, and threatening nearly every single amendment in our Constitution, where has humanity gone? Where has patriotism gone?

Folks, for those of you with daughters, think about the young women who suffered such atrocities and damage at the hands of these wealthy men (and women). Will these women ever have peace? Their names weren’t redacted, just the names of the monsters who preyed on them. We’re protecting the predators, and while I’ll never understand that, I understand it even less when you do so while wearing a piece of religious jewelry. From what I understand, the man you’re representing didn’t condone pedophilia, hatred, torture, or revenge. He believed in humility, righteousness, love, compassion, and forgiveness.

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Louis, Vroom Vroom, and Jewish by Choice

February 17, 2026

amartinitoast.com, Grace and Kindness, Healing, Marissa, Rebecca, Zachary

I only know one of my sons-in-law, and, though I haven’t seen him in just about 12 years, I still feel that I know him well. Quirky, loyal, adorable, hyper, aloof, supportive, and creative are only a few of the many adjectives I’d use as descriptors, but, if I’m honest, I’d probably put brave at the top of the list (I’ll get to it later).

Marissa met Louis at post-prom. She had actually gone to prom with somebody else, but her date wasn’t available for the after plans. Marissa’s group was going down to Long Beach Island, where they were staying at the beach house of somebody’s friend, Matt. Matt was a classmate of theirs, and though Roo didn’t know him well, her friends did.

The kids drove down to LBI after the prom, and Marissa called me pretty late. I knew that she had arrived safely, thank G-d, and I only wanted her to have a good time. I was always worried that a flare of her Ulcerative Colitis was forthcoming (she still had her colon at this point), and I panicked when I heard from her so late at night.

Her voice was so peppy, so happy, and so melodic as she asked, “Mommy, is it okay if I date Matt’s brother?” I asked her about him, and she told me how cute he was, that his name was Louis, how seamless their chitchat was, and how comfortable he made her feel. The resounding, “Yes!” I gave her on the phone was followed by Jay storming down the steps, getting right up in my face, and, to my memory, though this is the ONLY sentence in this blog for which I wouldn’t sit for a polygraph, shoving me in the shoulder. Through gritted teeth and in the most demonic voice, he threatened (and this is verbatim), “Don’t you ever tell my daughter that she can date a shegetz.” For those of you who don’t know what a shegetz is, it’s a non-Jewish male.

I always hoped and assumed my kids would marry within our faith, but it certainly wasn’t grounds for disownment, like Jay would forewarn them. Of course, for the girls, matrilineality would prevail and their children would automatically be Jewish, but not for Zack. Actually, in Jay’s eyes, it wasn’t for the girls either, but more to come on that.

Nothing in the world was more important to me than my kids being happy, especially since I didn’t really have a happy childhood. I’ve already touched on quite a bit of that, and, if The Guardian or the Huffington Post accepts and publishes my submission, you’ll really understand so much more. But, for now, know that I overcompensated for my sad past by trying so hard to make sure my kids were safe, heard, protected, and indulged.

I covered for Marissa for months, lying to Jay about her whereabouts when she was with Lou Lou. The first time he came to pick her up, all of Thurston Drive was shaking from the “vroom vroom” of that black Ford Mustang (sans muffler). Here I was, completely willing to be the figurative (and probably literal) shield for my girl, but what was I to do with the “vroom vroom?” We managed, until we needed to sit down with Jay and tell him the truth.

Needless to say, I was to blame. By telling her it was okay to go on one date, that led to the same “slippery slope” that he often mentioned when I tried to bring something not explicitly marked kosher into the house. He was so angry at me (no surprises there), and he told her that, should they continue seeing each other and become engaged, he would need to convert. He also made it crystal clear that, when they had children, the children were not permitted to go to Louis’s parents’ house for Christmas or any religious holiday. Labeling it harsh and unreasonable, I tried to intervene, but, we all know how life ended up for me. Ironic, right?

I know that Louis converted, which is why I referred to him as brave before anything else. It isn’t easy being Jewish for those of us born into my often tackled and targeted religion , so making the choice, even if it is for love, should be lauded and saluted. And, with the extra restrictions and directories placed upon him by my ex-husband, my son-in-law’s bravery should be recognized.

May we all show our valor and begin to heal wounds, fill chasms, repair rifts, and clear consciences. May we have the resolve to say, “That’s not okay,” and “It’s time to not just break the literal and figurative ice, but actually melt it.”

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Happy Endings

September 30, 2025

Grace and Kindness

Sometimes, I will blog often. Though each entry takes me hours because I need for it to be perfect, I will occasionally tackle the challenge more than once a week if I’m in crisis or if I really need to say something. Today, both are true.

I just finished watching the television show, Mad Men. It first came out in 2007, and it was the stunning Jon Hamm’s breakout role. He was an advertising executive, and the show’s 7 seasons plunge you into the hedonistic, overindulgent, and, quite frankly, unrestrained world of advertising in the 60s. Excessive smoking, drinking, infidelity, and backstabbing (which, coincidentally, is probably also what Jay told the kids is the name of my autobiography), were all over every episode, and I won’t even begin to touch on how the show embodied the message that women should make dinner, look pretty, schedule appointments, and rarely think.

I have to say that this show was riveting. Dark yet funny, aggravating yet auspicious, realistic yet unlikely, and sexy yet repugnant, all 92 episodes, at some point, left me feeling sad, envious, unfulfilled, energized, defeated, frightened, stirred, galvanized, hopeful. The writers and the actors certainly did their jobs effectively, as one can argue for days about who, in fact, realized and reached their happy ending.

What, actually, is a happy ending? Once upon a time, it was the name of an ice cream sundae that one could get at Friendly’s. It was small, but it did the job of topping off that Fishamajig or SuperMelt with something yummy. A happy ending is also what some people get at the end of a massage, where the masseuse brings you to orgasm after putting you in a relaxed state of bliss. (Did you think every blog would be PG)? A happy ending is what we’re used to and hoping to read about in fairy tales, especially since the heroine has usually gone through the tortures of the damned before she can even think about her happy ending.

My happy ending will have the 3 who matter most, their spouses, and my grandchildren (who probably won’t be babies anymore). I, woefully, will have missed out on the “I’m pregnant!” announcements, the pregnancies, the births, the “What do I do, Mom?” and the “Did this happen to you, Mom?” The delicious scent of a newborn mixed with the intoxicating combination of Dreft, Desitin, and Johnson and Johnson Baby Shampoo will have to be a memory I pull from storage, when the 3 who matter most were small. I won’t get to play my famous “Oh, I Don’t Think So” game that elicits such giggles and squeals of joy, and the indentations on the chubby little wrists and ankles will probably have filled in.

Maybe, however, if I’m lucky, I’ll still get to give my renowned foot rides, attend sporting events, dance recitals, and school plays, cook my medicinal and traditional matzo ball soup, and embrace my religion again. Just as my 6th grade students share their weekend plans during our five-minute, end of the week, “Gibbering with Jaffe” sessions, perhaps my grandkids will tell their teacher that they’re having a sleepover at Grandma’s or that Grandma is picking them up from school to go to a Sabrina Carpenter concert. And maybe, just maybe, that Grandma will be me.

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