“Mummy, did you get the chicken for Yom Tov?” Her son was excited about Rosh Hashono. He had been talking about the honey, the round challah, the little bottles of grape juice, and the chicken. He was six years old. To him, Yom Tov meant the table being full. To his mother, it meant numbers. She stood in the supermarket with her phone in one hand and the trolley in front of her. Bread.Milk.Fruit.Tuna.Challah.Chicken. She added it up. Too much. She took the chicken out. Added

I thought the children were playing in the other room. My wife was sitting at the kitchen table with a pen, a piece of paper and the beginnings of our Yom Tov shopping list. Chicken. Fish. Fruit. Vegetables. Honey. Something special for the children. I was sitting opposite her with my phone open to our bank account. We weren't planning anything extravagant. We were trying to work out how to make Yom Tov. And the numbers simply weren't working. So we started crossing things of