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Sisters of Fortune

A Novel

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Hardcover
$30.00 US
| $39.99 CAN
On sale Jul 22, 2025 | 320 Pages | 9780593734544
Grades 9-12 + AP/IB

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In this heart-warming and witty debut novel from a “Jewish Jane Austen” (Jill Kargman), three sisters chase love and grapple with the growing pains of young womanhood as they seek their place within and beyond their Syrian Jewish Brooklyn community.

The Cohen sisters are at a crossroads. And not just because the obedient middle sister, Fortune, has secretly started to question her engagement and impending wedding, even as her family scrambles to prepare for the big day. Nina, the rebellious eldest sister, is single at 26 (and growing cobwebs by her community's standards) when she runs into an old friend who offers her a chance to choose a different path. Meanwhile, Lucy, the youngest, a senior in high school, has started sneaking around with a charming older bachelor.

As Fortune inches ever closer to the chuppah, the sisters find themselves in a tug of war between tradition and modernity, reckoning with what their tight-knit community wants—and with what they want for themselves.

Sisters of Fortune is a sister story about dating, ambition, and coming-of-age within an immigrant community whose affection is endearing, maddening, and never boring. This novel reckons with the roots that entwine our lives to the ones who love us best, the dreams we hold for our daughters—and the winding paths we take to our own happy endings.
Fortune

Chapter One

I’m in my future mother-in-law’s Formica kitchen, raking bits of belahat soaked rice and eggplant heshu off of dinner plates and into the garbage bin. I hand the plates to Marta, my future mother-in-law’s long-standing housekeeper, to be cleaned with Palmolive and water. The future mother-in-law doesn’t believe in dishwashers and for that reason, among many others, she reminds me of my grandma Fortune, who we call “Sitto.” Like Sitto, my future mother-in-law, my MIL, believes in doing everything by hand. Shortcuts are for the lazy and incapable. The MIL calls Marta into the dining room to help clean the challah crumbs and wine-stained napkins from the table. Saul and my future father-in-law are already reclined in the den, poring over the Post and last night’s Knicks game.

The MIL is no dummy, and it’s only a matter of time before she catches on to my lie. The hard truth is that I’ve been pawning off grocery store–bought knafeh as my own for six weeks now. What would Saul say if he found out that my “Best in the Community!” knafeh wasn’t mine at all but the product of a multimillion-dollar goliath of kosher baked goods? Would he still have asked to marry me? It would cost my ring a carat, at least, if he found out how I unwrapped the (parve) margarine-glued kataifi square from its frozen casing, tossed it in the oven, and waited exactly seventeen minutes until it browned. He would never trust me again if he saw how I sprinkled crushed pistachios on top to create the illusion that the store-bought pastry was mine.

In the other room, I can hear Saul over the exhausted hum of the Frigidaire say, “Ma. This one’s gonna fatten me up, Ma. I’m a dead man.” The MIL has finished clearing the dining room table, which means she has retreated to the den and I’d better get started on dessert.

I move from the garbage bin to the kitchen island, where cookies and pastries wait in their still-warm tins. I begin to plate the mamoul in symmetrical rows of four, wiping the excess sugar from around the silver tray. I feel the saliva collect inside my cheeks as I imagine sinking my teeth into one of the date-filled pastries. This, too, the MIL made from scratch. She made them from scratch like she makes everything from scratch. Mamoul and atayef and sambusak and yebre. Her freezer is its own supermarket, packed to the gills with Costco-bought Ziploc bags full of readily defrostable “pickups.” She can whip up a meal faster than you can decline her invitation. This is a fact, and it’s one she takes great pride in. According to my Sitto, there are only two things in a woman’s life that should never be kept empty: her womb and her freezer. And you’d do well to remember that the contents of one of those won’t grow up to talk back.

I decide in this moment that I absolutely will not tell Saul about the knafeh. Ever. But she knows, the MIL. I know that she knows and she knows that I know that she knows. And do you know how I know? Because she still hasn’t asked me for the recipe. Then again, why would she? Would Cher ask Gaga for voice lessons? Instead, the MIL got to work and baked the most exquisite looking knafeh that this side of Brooklyn has ever seen. I tiptoe into the den and set the tray of mamoul down on the coffee table.

“Sit honey, please.” The MIL taps the spot on the couch next to her. But I’m not dumb; I don’t take the bait. Some women might think that a ring on their finger guarantees their security. Those women did not grow up with my Sitto, and they would be wrong. A daughter-in-law only stops kissing ass when that ass is six feet underground, and even then, it helps to continue the tradition.

“Just a couple more!” I chirp, and retreat back into the kitchen for a fruit plate and some sweet kaak. Marta follows with the rest and when every dessert is on the coffee table, I take a seat next to my fiancé, Saul. The vinyl-covered floral sofa squeaks as I shift and I pull my cardigan tighter around my body. In the center of the dessert spread is the MIL’s knafeh, brimming with the iridescent pride of one thousand G-D-damn suns.

“G-D forbid your mother should measure up to your bride, Saul, but here, don’t kill me for trying,” my MIL says. She kneels to reach the cake knife laid beside the Pyrex and feigns heaviness, as though her knees threaten to buckle beneath her weight, all 175 pounds of her.

“Here, Ma. I got it, sit down!” Saul jumps to take the knife from his mother, as if she’s decades beyond her fifty-two years. This is the way the MIL carries herself at all times, as if her undying commitment to her children might break her at any moment. She welcomes the pain. I imagine her saying:

“Throw me on the pyre!”

“Epidurals are for women who own bread machines!”

“Let my tombstone read: Marie ‘I will always get the last word’ Dweck, Beloved Wife, Mother, Grandmother, and MIL.”

My MIL pulls the knife away from Saul and proceeds to cut into the knafeh. Rose water pools inside each sliver. This is not a cake that came frozen from a box. As she hands Saul the first slice, the MIL tells us her new diet is working—she is down to 165 pounds as of last Thursday. Which means she’s no longer seeing the old doctor, a miracle worker before he was a liar and a crook and, eventually, as these things tend to go, an anti-Semite. How quickly the consensus around him had shifted over a plate of kaak and a particularly spirited game of canasta. Which brings me to the second lesson Sitto has taught me: Only two things can happen to a professional who stakes his reputation on women who play canasta; they’re either broken or made over the game. There is no in-between. My mother-in-law tells us that somebody in her group got wind from somebody who was buying mazza from somebody, that the real miracle worker is two offices over in the ramshackle building in Sheepshead Bay that houses sixteen holistic dietitians and not one working scale. She had her doctor of three decades fax over her medical records within the hour.

The MIL hands a slice to her husband and smooths her skirt, then shifts an oblong platter of green grapes and cantaloupe two inches to the right. “The rules of the diet are simple,” she says. “I can’t even believe I have to pay a grown man to tell me not to make my own plate.”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars a visit for a quack doctor to tell you to eat like one of my grandchildren.” Saul’s father spits. He motions for my MIL to put some fruit on his plate. I catch a whiff of stale cigar smoke as he points a tanned finger at the mango, and I’m immediately reminded of my grandpa Jack.

“But I swear to you, it works. You really will drop weight if you vow never to make your own plate,” Marie says, paying him no mind.

“She just eats off mine,” Saul’s father says, rolling his eyes.

“Well G-D knows there’s usually enough on your plate for two.” The MIL spears a piece of cantaloupe and wraps it in a napkin for her husband. “I mean, shoof, it’s working, isn’t it?” Marie smooths her sweater over her hips and looks at Saul with wide eyes.

“You look great, Ma.”

“I got no high cholesterol, blood pressure. Nothing,” Saul’s father says, eyeing the plate of mamoul I brought out.

“We know,” the MIL says, rolling her eyes. “You’re the regular picture of health.”

I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The MIL hasn’t made her own plate since I said yes to Saul’s proposal. She doesn’t order an entrée at restaurants. Instead, she watches her company eat, and only after they’re done does she dig into whatever scraps are left over on their plates. If the plates have been wiped clean, the MIL does not eat. If the plates have been prematurely whisked away, the MIL does not eat. If a stray hand strikes a glass of water and the contents of the plate are drowned, the MIL does not eat. She would rather starve than settle for soggy rice and blanched string beans.

The nature of the diet has severely impacted her social life, as you might imagine. “What would people think?” I’ve heard her tell my future father-in-law. Of course, my FIL doesn’t want to seem complicit while she scavenges for leftovers. People would label them insane, or worse, cheap. G-D forbid. He wants her to eat like a human, not a sewer rat. But to fight his wife on this would only strengthen her resolve. So like the rest of us, he stays quiet.

“Anyway, it’s obvious your father likes my knafeh,” she says, turning her attention to Saul. “Don’t tell me you’re watching your weight for the wedding, too. You’re too thin as it is. Yalla, take a bite already, honey. Let me know if it measures up to Fortune’s.”
“This book explores the bonds of sisterhood, immigrant identity, and the universal search for self-determination—all served alongside perfectly rolled grape leaves.”SheReads

“This plot-driven novel deftly examines weighty themes like generational pressure, sisterhood, and quiet rebellion, creating an intimate, tender, and insightful portrait of women carving space for themselves in a world that offers them little room to breathe. A vibrant celebration of identity and the push-pull between heritage and autonomy.”—Kirkus Reviews

“An absolute joy of a novel about a most enviable family, this is a book to savor—a feast for the heart and mind. Read it if you yearn to be immersed in matriarchy at its finest.”—Elisa Albert, author of Human Blues

“In this savvy and heartwarming debut, three Syrian Jewish sisters in a tight-knit Brooklyn community look for love—and themselves—while navigating the dueling pulls of tradition and modernity.”—Stephanie Butnick, founder of GOLDA

“Perceptive and entertaining, Sisters of Fortune is a bold debut novel. Never before have readers seen three generations of Syrian Jewish women rolling yebra (grape leaves) side by side in the kitchen, passing down community values and female expectations like just another treasured family recipe. I love coming-of-age stories, and I couldn’t put this one down.”—Corie Adjmi, author of The Marriage Box

“A warm, wise and utterly enjoyable novel that invites us into the lives of three vibrant sisters, one big-hearted family and a fascinating, close-knit community. Sisters of Fortune is a real delight.”—Tova Mirvis, author of Visible City

“In this savvy and heartwarming debut, three Syrian Jewish sisters in a tight-knit Brooklyn community look for love—and themselves—while navigating the dueling pulls of tradition and modernity.”—Stephanie Butnick, founder of GOLDA

“Esther Chehebar is a Jewish Jane Austen exploring the universal themes of sisterhood, advantageous marriage, and community dynamics. Through the prism of her hilariously detailed look into Sephardic life, we get a joyful peek into the pod, seeing what makes this world so wildly different but also so very much the same at heart.”—Jill Kargman, creator of Odd Mom Out

“Esther Chehebar writes with an open heart and a curiosity about seeing where she is from—a place so much bigger than her—that can help us access the same kind of courage to narrate and have fun with our own stories.”—Leandra Medine, author of Man Repeller

Sisters of Fortune is part coming-of-age story, part slice-of-life exploration of conservative Syrian Jewish life in America. The family dynamics are compelling, with each character offering a different perspective, from grandmother Sitto, who immigrated from Aleppo; to Sally, their mother who wasn’t raised in the community; to the three sisters, each navigating the tension between tradition and modern American values. This debut is fun and engaging, featuring alternating points of view among the sisters. It will especially appeal to readers interested in culture, family, and Jewish traditions.”Booklist 
Esther Chehebar is a contributing writer at Tablet magazine, where she covers Sephardic Jewish tradition and community, and a member of Sephardic Bikur Holim, a non-profit supporting the growing Syrian Jewish community in Brooklyn. She holds an MFA from the New School and has had her work featured in Glamour and Man Repeller. Chehebar’s first book, I Share My Name, was an illustrated children’s book explaining the Sephardic tradition of naming children for their grandparents. She lives in New York with her husband, their kids, their Ori-Pei named Jude, and a couple of fish. This is her debut novel. View titles by Esther Chehebar

About

In this heart-warming and witty debut novel from a “Jewish Jane Austen” (Jill Kargman), three sisters chase love and grapple with the growing pains of young womanhood as they seek their place within and beyond their Syrian Jewish Brooklyn community.

The Cohen sisters are at a crossroads. And not just because the obedient middle sister, Fortune, has secretly started to question her engagement and impending wedding, even as her family scrambles to prepare for the big day. Nina, the rebellious eldest sister, is single at 26 (and growing cobwebs by her community's standards) when she runs into an old friend who offers her a chance to choose a different path. Meanwhile, Lucy, the youngest, a senior in high school, has started sneaking around with a charming older bachelor.

As Fortune inches ever closer to the chuppah, the sisters find themselves in a tug of war between tradition and modernity, reckoning with what their tight-knit community wants—and with what they want for themselves.

Sisters of Fortune is a sister story about dating, ambition, and coming-of-age within an immigrant community whose affection is endearing, maddening, and never boring. This novel reckons with the roots that entwine our lives to the ones who love us best, the dreams we hold for our daughters—and the winding paths we take to our own happy endings.

Excerpt

Fortune

Chapter One

I’m in my future mother-in-law’s Formica kitchen, raking bits of belahat soaked rice and eggplant heshu off of dinner plates and into the garbage bin. I hand the plates to Marta, my future mother-in-law’s long-standing housekeeper, to be cleaned with Palmolive and water. The future mother-in-law doesn’t believe in dishwashers and for that reason, among many others, she reminds me of my grandma Fortune, who we call “Sitto.” Like Sitto, my future mother-in-law, my MIL, believes in doing everything by hand. Shortcuts are for the lazy and incapable. The MIL calls Marta into the dining room to help clean the challah crumbs and wine-stained napkins from the table. Saul and my future father-in-law are already reclined in the den, poring over the Post and last night’s Knicks game.

The MIL is no dummy, and it’s only a matter of time before she catches on to my lie. The hard truth is that I’ve been pawning off grocery store–bought knafeh as my own for six weeks now. What would Saul say if he found out that my “Best in the Community!” knafeh wasn’t mine at all but the product of a multimillion-dollar goliath of kosher baked goods? Would he still have asked to marry me? It would cost my ring a carat, at least, if he found out how I unwrapped the (parve) margarine-glued kataifi square from its frozen casing, tossed it in the oven, and waited exactly seventeen minutes until it browned. He would never trust me again if he saw how I sprinkled crushed pistachios on top to create the illusion that the store-bought pastry was mine.

In the other room, I can hear Saul over the exhausted hum of the Frigidaire say, “Ma. This one’s gonna fatten me up, Ma. I’m a dead man.” The MIL has finished clearing the dining room table, which means she has retreated to the den and I’d better get started on dessert.

I move from the garbage bin to the kitchen island, where cookies and pastries wait in their still-warm tins. I begin to plate the mamoul in symmetrical rows of four, wiping the excess sugar from around the silver tray. I feel the saliva collect inside my cheeks as I imagine sinking my teeth into one of the date-filled pastries. This, too, the MIL made from scratch. She made them from scratch like she makes everything from scratch. Mamoul and atayef and sambusak and yebre. Her freezer is its own supermarket, packed to the gills with Costco-bought Ziploc bags full of readily defrostable “pickups.” She can whip up a meal faster than you can decline her invitation. This is a fact, and it’s one she takes great pride in. According to my Sitto, there are only two things in a woman’s life that should never be kept empty: her womb and her freezer. And you’d do well to remember that the contents of one of those won’t grow up to talk back.

I decide in this moment that I absolutely will not tell Saul about the knafeh. Ever. But she knows, the MIL. I know that she knows and she knows that I know that she knows. And do you know how I know? Because she still hasn’t asked me for the recipe. Then again, why would she? Would Cher ask Gaga for voice lessons? Instead, the MIL got to work and baked the most exquisite looking knafeh that this side of Brooklyn has ever seen. I tiptoe into the den and set the tray of mamoul down on the coffee table.

“Sit honey, please.” The MIL taps the spot on the couch next to her. But I’m not dumb; I don’t take the bait. Some women might think that a ring on their finger guarantees their security. Those women did not grow up with my Sitto, and they would be wrong. A daughter-in-law only stops kissing ass when that ass is six feet underground, and even then, it helps to continue the tradition.

“Just a couple more!” I chirp, and retreat back into the kitchen for a fruit plate and some sweet kaak. Marta follows with the rest and when every dessert is on the coffee table, I take a seat next to my fiancé, Saul. The vinyl-covered floral sofa squeaks as I shift and I pull my cardigan tighter around my body. In the center of the dessert spread is the MIL’s knafeh, brimming with the iridescent pride of one thousand G-D-damn suns.

“G-D forbid your mother should measure up to your bride, Saul, but here, don’t kill me for trying,” my MIL says. She kneels to reach the cake knife laid beside the Pyrex and feigns heaviness, as though her knees threaten to buckle beneath her weight, all 175 pounds of her.

“Here, Ma. I got it, sit down!” Saul jumps to take the knife from his mother, as if she’s decades beyond her fifty-two years. This is the way the MIL carries herself at all times, as if her undying commitment to her children might break her at any moment. She welcomes the pain. I imagine her saying:

“Throw me on the pyre!”

“Epidurals are for women who own bread machines!”

“Let my tombstone read: Marie ‘I will always get the last word’ Dweck, Beloved Wife, Mother, Grandmother, and MIL.”

My MIL pulls the knife away from Saul and proceeds to cut into the knafeh. Rose water pools inside each sliver. This is not a cake that came frozen from a box. As she hands Saul the first slice, the MIL tells us her new diet is working—she is down to 165 pounds as of last Thursday. Which means she’s no longer seeing the old doctor, a miracle worker before he was a liar and a crook and, eventually, as these things tend to go, an anti-Semite. How quickly the consensus around him had shifted over a plate of kaak and a particularly spirited game of canasta. Which brings me to the second lesson Sitto has taught me: Only two things can happen to a professional who stakes his reputation on women who play canasta; they’re either broken or made over the game. There is no in-between. My mother-in-law tells us that somebody in her group got wind from somebody who was buying mazza from somebody, that the real miracle worker is two offices over in the ramshackle building in Sheepshead Bay that houses sixteen holistic dietitians and not one working scale. She had her doctor of three decades fax over her medical records within the hour.

The MIL hands a slice to her husband and smooths her skirt, then shifts an oblong platter of green grapes and cantaloupe two inches to the right. “The rules of the diet are simple,” she says. “I can’t even believe I have to pay a grown man to tell me not to make my own plate.”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars a visit for a quack doctor to tell you to eat like one of my grandchildren.” Saul’s father spits. He motions for my MIL to put some fruit on his plate. I catch a whiff of stale cigar smoke as he points a tanned finger at the mango, and I’m immediately reminded of my grandpa Jack.

“But I swear to you, it works. You really will drop weight if you vow never to make your own plate,” Marie says, paying him no mind.

“She just eats off mine,” Saul’s father says, rolling his eyes.

“Well G-D knows there’s usually enough on your plate for two.” The MIL spears a piece of cantaloupe and wraps it in a napkin for her husband. “I mean, shoof, it’s working, isn’t it?” Marie smooths her sweater over her hips and looks at Saul with wide eyes.

“You look great, Ma.”

“I got no high cholesterol, blood pressure. Nothing,” Saul’s father says, eyeing the plate of mamoul I brought out.

“We know,” the MIL says, rolling her eyes. “You’re the regular picture of health.”

I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The MIL hasn’t made her own plate since I said yes to Saul’s proposal. She doesn’t order an entrée at restaurants. Instead, she watches her company eat, and only after they’re done does she dig into whatever scraps are left over on their plates. If the plates have been wiped clean, the MIL does not eat. If the plates have been prematurely whisked away, the MIL does not eat. If a stray hand strikes a glass of water and the contents of the plate are drowned, the MIL does not eat. She would rather starve than settle for soggy rice and blanched string beans.

The nature of the diet has severely impacted her social life, as you might imagine. “What would people think?” I’ve heard her tell my future father-in-law. Of course, my FIL doesn’t want to seem complicit while she scavenges for leftovers. People would label them insane, or worse, cheap. G-D forbid. He wants her to eat like a human, not a sewer rat. But to fight his wife on this would only strengthen her resolve. So like the rest of us, he stays quiet.

“Anyway, it’s obvious your father likes my knafeh,” she says, turning her attention to Saul. “Don’t tell me you’re watching your weight for the wedding, too. You’re too thin as it is. Yalla, take a bite already, honey. Let me know if it measures up to Fortune’s.”

Reviews

“This book explores the bonds of sisterhood, immigrant identity, and the universal search for self-determination—all served alongside perfectly rolled grape leaves.”SheReads

“This plot-driven novel deftly examines weighty themes like generational pressure, sisterhood, and quiet rebellion, creating an intimate, tender, and insightful portrait of women carving space for themselves in a world that offers them little room to breathe. A vibrant celebration of identity and the push-pull between heritage and autonomy.”—Kirkus Reviews

“An absolute joy of a novel about a most enviable family, this is a book to savor—a feast for the heart and mind. Read it if you yearn to be immersed in matriarchy at its finest.”—Elisa Albert, author of Human Blues

“In this savvy and heartwarming debut, three Syrian Jewish sisters in a tight-knit Brooklyn community look for love—and themselves—while navigating the dueling pulls of tradition and modernity.”—Stephanie Butnick, founder of GOLDA

“Perceptive and entertaining, Sisters of Fortune is a bold debut novel. Never before have readers seen three generations of Syrian Jewish women rolling yebra (grape leaves) side by side in the kitchen, passing down community values and female expectations like just another treasured family recipe. I love coming-of-age stories, and I couldn’t put this one down.”—Corie Adjmi, author of The Marriage Box

“A warm, wise and utterly enjoyable novel that invites us into the lives of three vibrant sisters, one big-hearted family and a fascinating, close-knit community. Sisters of Fortune is a real delight.”—Tova Mirvis, author of Visible City

“In this savvy and heartwarming debut, three Syrian Jewish sisters in a tight-knit Brooklyn community look for love—and themselves—while navigating the dueling pulls of tradition and modernity.”—Stephanie Butnick, founder of GOLDA

“Esther Chehebar is a Jewish Jane Austen exploring the universal themes of sisterhood, advantageous marriage, and community dynamics. Through the prism of her hilariously detailed look into Sephardic life, we get a joyful peek into the pod, seeing what makes this world so wildly different but also so very much the same at heart.”—Jill Kargman, creator of Odd Mom Out

“Esther Chehebar writes with an open heart and a curiosity about seeing where she is from—a place so much bigger than her—that can help us access the same kind of courage to narrate and have fun with our own stories.”—Leandra Medine, author of Man Repeller

Sisters of Fortune is part coming-of-age story, part slice-of-life exploration of conservative Syrian Jewish life in America. The family dynamics are compelling, with each character offering a different perspective, from grandmother Sitto, who immigrated from Aleppo; to Sally, their mother who wasn’t raised in the community; to the three sisters, each navigating the tension between tradition and modern American values. This debut is fun and engaging, featuring alternating points of view among the sisters. It will especially appeal to readers interested in culture, family, and Jewish traditions.”Booklist 

Author

Esther Chehebar is a contributing writer at Tablet magazine, where she covers Sephardic Jewish tradition and community, and a member of Sephardic Bikur Holim, a non-profit supporting the growing Syrian Jewish community in Brooklyn. She holds an MFA from the New School and has had her work featured in Glamour and Man Repeller. Chehebar’s first book, I Share My Name, was an illustrated children’s book explaining the Sephardic tradition of naming children for their grandparents. She lives in New York with her husband, their kids, their Ori-Pei named Jude, and a couple of fish. This is her debut novel. View titles by Esther Chehebar
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