fiction by Ingrid Hughes

The Strength of Tamar

Judah was tender with Hagar the winter she was sick. Her flesh shrank from her bones and her eyes burned, avid and angry. He carried her from her tent himself and set her on her pillows under the olive trees, holding her hand as she muttered. Her life had been cruel, she said. She had brought forth three sons, and two of them had died before her. If she caught sight of me, she would say, “It’s the fault of that one that I have no grandchildren.”

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