The low murmur of voices surround me like a swarm of busy bees, a persistent noise that I couldn’t focus on. Women move in and out of the house, their hands busy either preparing food, straightening the mat where Eliab’s body lay, or rubbing my back while murmuring words of comfort I honestly can’t quite hear. The men are gathered outside, speaking in hushed tones, their presence a mere shadow at the edges of my awareness.

I am seated in the corner of the room, my back pressed against the rough wall and my knees drawn to my chest. My hands tremble violently as I stare blankly at the empty space in front of me. Some of the have taken Eliab’s body to prepare it for burial, but I just couldn’t bring myself to watch.

The house feels so cold now. Empty and hollow.

Like me.

Inside my mind, a single question burns through, repeating endlessly.

Why, Adonai? Why?

The words endlessly loops, circling around my traumatized mind like vultures over a dying animal. My lips don’t move, but my soul fiercely screams the question. What had I done?

God, is it some hidden sin? Did I fail to honour You? Is there a transgression I have failed to make atonement for? My husband had been a good man, a strong provider and loving person. Yet, You took him away from me. And now my son. Why?

I close my eyes, but the memories came rushing in with the fury of a rushing flood.

I see Eliab’s tiny hands clutching my fingers the day he was born, his wide, innocent eyes staring up at me with wonder as I smile at him, the pain of labour extinguished by his presence in my arms.

I see his father, my beloved Yohanan, laughing joyfully as he tosses him in the air, his strong arms catching him securely. Such a heartwarming sight it was to see father and son bonding in that moment.

I see the day Yohanan fell ill. How that fever that burned through him like a wildfire, and how I had knelt by his side, just as I had knelt by Eliab’s last night.

And now… now I am alone.

I press my forehead to my knees, trying in vain to block out the ache in my chest. Of course, it’s as pointless as the prayers I prayed for my son.

How could You, Adonai? How could You?? Are You not the Defender of the widow and the Protector of the fatherless? That’s what You say You are, according to Your prophets. Yet, here I sit, without husband or child.

No protection, no defender. Only silence.

“Hatita? Hatita?” A soft voice breaks into my thoughts, but I don’t look up.

Someone crouches beside me. My focus is barely on who it is, but my guess is that it is Mara. I’m far too shattered to bring myself to focus on her face, though.

“Hatita, hear me, we’re here for you,” she speaks gently, placing a hand on my arm. “You’re not alone.”

Not alone? Not alone, really?

I want to laugh, but the sound gets stuck in my throat. I know she’s trying to console me, but we both know that claim is as laughable as claiming King Ahab was a better king of Israel than King David. The community may be here now to offer me some support, but soon they will leave. They have their own lives, their own children to tend to, their own griefs to bear. None of them will stay behind to spend the night with me; they’ll be with their families.

The truth is… I am alone.

My mind wanders again.

Yohanan had died so suddenly, just like Eliab. One moment, he was strong and healthy, laughing heartily as he brought in the day’s work; the next, he was laid out on the same mat, fevered and weak, slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I clung to him.

And now my son… my Eliab, my joy, my future… is gone too. Just like that.

What is left for me, Adonai? What purpose do I have in this world now? Tell me, Adonai, tell me!

“Hatita, please.”

I hear Mara’s voice cracking, and I feel her grip tighten on my arm. “Please, say something. Let us help you. Please.”

I turn to her, my eyes full of incredulity. I open my mouth, and my voice is barely above a whisper. “Help me? Can you help me?” My lips trembled as I shook my head. “Can you bring my son back? Can you bring my husband back? Can you bring my family back? Can you?”

Mara’s face crumples, and she pulls me into an embrace as I break down once more. The warmth of her hug, however, is just not enough to touch the icy void inside me. I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing.

While I cry, the silent questions in my heart turn sharper and sharper.

What have I done to deserve this? I followed the Torah as best as I ought to. I honoured and submitted to my husband. I raised Eliab to know You and to obey Your statutes. Yet, You let them both be taken from me. How is this justice? How is this mercy?

The murmurs in the room grow louder, but I’m too pained and devastated to have any idea what they are saying. I tuned them out, retreating further into my thoughts and questions.

Grief has hollowed me out, leaving nothing but a faint and feeble echo of who I used to be. I’m just a shadow trembling in the absence of what I loved most. The weight of my sorrow is suffocating, crushing every breath I take, and all I can do is stare into the void and wonder if I will ever feel whole again—or if this is all that remains of me now.

And even as I stare, I know the answer: this is all that remains of me now.

The woman is distraught, devastated… man, you just feel for her…