“Then tell me this,” she said. “Why do hens not make milk like cows and goats do? Is it because they make eggs?”

Mari sighed and pulled a thread between the carpet’s weave. “Not now,” she said.

Anna looked down into the pail. It contained only a shallow disk of milk. The goat, it seemed, had very little to give. But Anna refused to burden her mother with more bad news.

She tugged again at the animal’s teats. “I am going to get milk enough for you to make a great ball of cheese!” she bragged, trying to put a good face on their predicament. She then gave the goat a scratch under its chin, hoping to encourage it.

When Mari did not respond, Anna sought again to reach her. This time asking a question from deeper in her heart.

“Mother? Do you think God loves all of us equally? Or does He like boys more than girls?”

Anna heard her mother groan. Puzzled by this response, she glanced over. When she did, Mari bolted upright, her spine snapping straight. “Oh!” she cried. She dropped the carpet and plastered her palms along her abdomen.

“Mother!” Anna cried.

Mari groaned louder and with greater urgency. She folded onto herself, her arms wrapping around her middle as if to keep her insides from spilling.

“Mother, you must lie down,” Anna said, pressing her fingers into Mari’s shoulders. She remembered the first time her mother had experienced the pain. Almost a year ago. It had come suddenly, as it did now. When it had first struck, Anna thought her mother was going to have another baby. Even Yoseph had believed it, and had gone so far as to slaughter a chicken.

But as time rolled on, periods of hope gave way to lingering doubt when Mari failed to produce another child.

Yet the bouts of pain continued. Growing worse each time they came.

“Mother, please. Let me help you.”

With her daughter’s support, Mari lifted herself from the floor and scrambled toward her mat. On the way, the color fled her face and beads of sweat broke out along her brow.

“Help me, Great Mother,” she whispered through lips the color of death.

Yoseph sat cross-legged in the dust. The vibrant sounds and colors of Sepphoris surrounded him. Whenever someone walked by, he called out, “Alms? Alms for the poor?” When he tired of begging, he would squint directly into the sun, waiting until he could no longer stand the stab of light. After a time, he came to welcome the accompanying pain. It was something he could control.

His eyes were still closed when a man approached wearing a richly colored silk robe.

“What are you doing here?” the man asked.

Keeping his eyes closed, Yoseph pleaded, “Alms? Alms for the poor and … his family?” he added, the last with some reluctance.

The man ignored the beggar’s request. “Are you not Yoseph?” he asked.