Eventually, I get tired of re-reading texts, looking for subtexts, and replaying wished-for outcomes, looking for opportunities to re-write the ending, when The Child rewrites it for me. She tells me that she won’t be working backstage on the next school play – she volunteered, but there was too much concern about the potential for backstage drama.

I ask if I should speak to the Drama Teacher, try to work something out, and she says, No, he’s not working on this play, the other drama teacher is. The Drama Teacher is leaving at the end of the school year, moving back to LA to work in theater.

A distraction is needed. Having failed on Match.com and OKCupid and Tinder (and Coffee Meets Bagel and The League and let’s not forget Plenty of Fish), I consider that perhaps I’ll have better luck fishing in my own stream, so I set up a Jdate profile.

Get Chosen, says the website.

Pick me, says my profile.

I flip through all the profiles in my region, and get excited: Professional men with advanced degrees, nary a motorcycle or tattoo or unnerving bathroom mirror shot to be found.

Emails start to arrive, as do Flirts, Jdate’s version of the Match wink or the Facebook poke, but I can’t see who’s sending them: Every time I click a message, I am directed to sign up for a fairly pricey subscription.

But I’m Jewish, and regrettably familiar with how dating sites work, so I simply wait for Passover and the inevitable sale that comes with it, then pay in advance for six months of discounted Jdating.