Anna arrived at the well but found no one there. She filled the jar and water began to seep from a crack in its side. She hurried back to the house, pressing her finger over the leak. Mari took the jar and set it in the coals. Just the smell of warming water urged a gnawing in Anna’s stomach. She tried to turn her mind against it, knowing her hunger would grow throughout the day.

Mari hovered above the flames, Anna thought, like a skeleton. The skin around her cheeks was ashen and taut. Her once olive and chocolate eyes were a lightless gray. When Yoseph had stopped working, Mari had stopped talking, and it scared Anna the way they avoided each other.

During one of his visits, the priest had proclaimed that Mari was barren. Daniel told Anna the word meant “empty.” But Anna found that confusing.

How could her mother be empty?

After all, it was her mother’s hands that pulled milk from the cow and patched holes in her tunic. It was her mother’s words that dried Anna’s tears and her wisdom that lit her days.

Later, Anna overheard the women at the well discussing the matter. One insisted that the priest was wrong. That he could not possibly know of such things. And that it was not the jar, but the spigot, that was empty.

But what did it matter? another whispered, beating stone against cloth. Either way, the jar was always to blame!

After Anna helped her father wash his hands, Mari came and sat for morning prayers.

Yoseph’s incantations began slowly, pushing their way through his persistent cough. Anna listened to the familiar phrases. “Our blessed Father who protects us.” “He who rules with a just and mighty hand.” “We, your chosen children.” “Born into this land of milk and honey.”

Glancing sideways at her mother’s fallen features, Anna could find no place for her father’s words in her life.

How wise and mighty could God’s hand be if her mother was to starve—despite her father’s ardent prayers?

When he was finished, Yoseph tucked his ruined hands into his sleeves. “Is my father’s meal ready?” he asked, avoiding Mari’s eyes.

Anna felt trapped in the tension between them. “Are you going to Sepphoris today?” she asked her father, hoping to distract him.

“Do I not always go to Sepphoris on this day?” he growled, hurling a bitter look at his wife’s back.

Mari handed over the tray. Anna stared at the four wrinkled olives, the half a cup of watery milk, and the stale flatbread. She felt her mouth flood.