You never chose him. But it was a deal. Father had no choice – and you had even less. František had hands made of clay, a house in a good location, two cows and a name that carried weight with people. The wedding came like rain after a sweltering heat – quickly, with mud and without joy.

He wasn’t unkind. On the contrary – he tried from the beginning. He told you all the things he had created, brought you prunes to the pantry and, when he could, showed you the new glazes on the bowls as if they were jewelry. But there was a whole world between his words and your heart.

He spoke often because the silence between you made him nervous. He would say: “You’ll get used to it. Time will smooth everything out. Like a mug baked to beauty in the oven.” And then he would laugh, even if you didn’t.

That evening was dry, the house smelled of cold clay and dry pepper. You sat leaning against the wall, your stomach tense and heavy. You helped your husband, who was a potter. You painted the pots and products he made and drew various patterns on the clay surfaces to add decoration. He always praised you for it. František came out of the workshop, holding something in his calloused fingers. His eyes darted from you to the table, as if he didn’t know whether to show it at all.

“I haven’t slept here. It occurred to me at night… I’ve made something,” he said, placing a small statuette in the lamplight.

It was made of clay, baked brown, finely carved. A female figure – her face, all too faithful, held a child in her hands. But it wasn’t just any Madonna – she had a wreath of meadow flowers on her head and symbols engraved on her dress that seemed more like a dream than the world.

“Like... you. And our little one. That’s how I imagine it. That’s how I wish it to be,” he explained quietly. His voice faltered. He carefully placed the statue of the woman and the statue of the man – his likeness – next to her. Both figures fit together beautifully, a simple family motif.

You looked at it for a long time. There was a piece of him in it – effort, desire, illusion. But it was still only clay.

“František…” you started, but then the words got stuck between your throat and your heart. “It’s beautiful,” you finally said. And then you turned away.

František stood there for a moment longer, then sighed. “I just wanted... for you to know that I mean well for you.”