It changed the response.
The man repaid through wages.
Lost financial responsibility for a year.
Kept his job.
Never stole again.
Thomas later said:
“You were right.”
Mercy nearly framed the sentence.
At fifty-five, Thomas developed severe pneumonia.
For a week, Mercy believed she would lose him.
The house became frighteningly quiet again.
The boys, now men, returned.
Seven sons.
Seven grown faces around the bed.
Thomas survived.
Barely.
Recovery took months.
For the first time, he could not work.
Mercy found him sitting on the porch one afternoon.
Angry.
“At what?”
“Myself.”
“Why?”
“I’m useless.”
Mercy stared.
Then laughed.
Thomas looked offended.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She sat beside him.
“Do you love me because I cook?”
“No.”
“Because I keep accounts?”
“No.”
“Because I raised boys?”
His expression softened.
“No.”
“Then why would I love you only because you can lift fence posts?”
Thomas looked away.
Mercy took his hand.
“You spent your whole life proving love by working yourself into the ground.”
“Stop.”
He looked at her.
“I don’t know how.”
Mercy smiled.
“I’ll make a list.”
He laughed.
That laugh told her he would recover.
Not only physically.
By sixty, Thomas supervised more than he worked.
Mercy moved slower too.
Her knees hurt.
Hands stiff in winter.
She remained large.
Never became the thinner woman some relatives once promised age would magically produce.
Thomas remained attracted to her.
Openly.
Mercy still sometimes found that difficult to believe.
One evening, she changed into a plain nightdress.
Thomas watched from bed.
Mercy caught him.
“What?”
He smiled.
“Nothing.”
“You have been saying ‘nothing’ badly for thirty years.”
Thomas held out one hand.
“Come here.”
She did.
He kissed her fingers.
“Beautiful.”
Mercy rolled her eyes.
“You need spectacles.”
“Have them.”
He pointed toward the table.
“Still beautiful.”
Mercy lay beside him.
“Do you remember our first night?”
“Yes.”
“You were terrified.”
“So were you.”
“I hid it better.”
“No.”
She laughed.
Thomas wrapped one arm around her.
After all those years, Mercy still felt something settle inside when he did.
Not excitement exactly.
Home.
Thomas died at seventy-six.
Not suddenly.
Heart failure.
Slow.
His sons visited constantly.
Mercy sat beside him through the final night.
Thomas’s breathing had become shallow.
He opened his eyes once.
“Mercy?”
“I’m here.”
He smiled faintly.
“Knew you would be.”
She tried not to cry.
Failed.
Thomas lifted one weak hand.
Mercy held it.
“Remember supper?”