Loving Mercy

Loving Mercy Bo Reid Copyright © 2023 by Bo Reid All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Formatting by: Graveyard Formatting and Design Cover by: GermanCreative Contents 1. Mercy 2. Mercy 3. Mercy 4. Mercy 5. Matthew 6. Mercy 7. Matthew 8. Matthew 9. Mercy 10. Matthew 11. Matthew 12. Mercy 13. Mercy 14. Matthew 15. Mercy 16. Mercy 17. Mercy 18. Mercy 19. Matthew 20. Mercy 21. Epilogue: Matthew Acknowledgments About the Author Also by Bo Reid 1 Mercy I’m sitting at the kitchen table looking at a thirty-day notice for our power, the bill for my night class tuition and the text from my boss letting me know he’ll be cutting my hours starting next month. We’re barely scraping by as it is. I have three little mouths to feed, clothe, and keep warm — with little to no outside help. I let out a sigh, grabbing my phone to text my other two employers, asking for additional hours. Our only saving grace is that the house we live in is paid for. My husband’s life insurance policy provided little, but I will never regret using it to pay off our home. Knowing that no matter what happens, my boys will always have a roof over their heads, and a place to call home is the only thing that gives me a semblance of peace. My husband of five years died five years ago, unexpectedly, just after our youngest Vaughn’s first birthday. And I have been a struggling single mother ever since, busting my ass working three jobs just to get by, taking night classes to finish a degree I should have completed years ago. I run on four or six hours of sleep every night — if that — and after five years and three kids, that takes a toll. I’m not sure how long I can keep this up, but I have to keep going for my boys. The stumbling sound of three pairs of little feet on the front steps draws my attention away from the bills in front of me. I quickly shove the papers together and move them into a drawer in the kitchen just as the front door slams open and my boys come tumbling into the house. “Mom! Mom! You’ll never believe it!” Killian, my oldest, yells into the house, before he is even six inches past the front door. “Shoes!” I holler, and all three little heathens stop suddenly and kick off their shoes like the good little heathens they are. “Okay, now tell me what I’ll never believe.” “We won four tickets to this weekend’s hockey game!” Bradan, my middle child, says. “Really? And how did we do that?” I ask. “They sent out these applications to the schools. All the kids filled them out and wrote a letter explaining why their family should get the tickets. I won. My teacher told me today,” Killian responds as his cheeks tint pink. “Well, that’s wonderful. What did you write in your letter?” I ask him. He shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, clearly not wanting to share with me what he wrote. I wait him out silently. He’ll break eventually. He might be a head taller than everyone else in his class and nearly as tall as I am, but I’m still his mama. And no matter how large my boys will grow up to be — all three of them clearly taking after their father — they know mom is the boss; always. “I kind of just explained how we lost dad, and how hard you’re always working for us.” He says and shrugs his broad shoulders like it's no big deal, but a smile pulls at my lips. “Come here,” I tell them, and they all come forward. I wrap my arms around them for a family group hug as I try not to cry in front of my boys. I would work three more jobs if I had to, for them. I love them more than anything else. “I think we will have a great time this weekend,” I tell them. “They’re even going to send us swag bags! With jerseys and other stuff we can wear to the game,” Vaughn, my youngest son, says excitedly. “That all sounds great, boys. Why don’t you all go wash up and start your homework while I get dinner going,” I tell them and shoo them out of the room. Once I round the corner back into the kitchen, my phone rings. I look at it and see it’s my dad. I sigh, already exhausted by the call that I haven’t even answered yet. “Hey Dad,” I answer “Mercy, how are you and the boys?” he asks with a gruff tone in his voice, like always. “We’re fine dad, actually the boys just got home from school. Killian won some contest for tickets to this weekend's hockey game, so they’re pretty excited,” I tell him, attempting to pull any semblance of human interaction with him. “And how are you?” “Fine dad. Tired, but I’ve been tired for the last ten years,” I sigh. “Right, well, I was just calling because your mother wants to know how much it will be for the boys’ sports this year.” My parents pay for the boys to play any sport or do extracurricular activities. The deal is my parents pay for the cost, and my in-laws pay for the needed gear. And that’s the only thing any of them help me with. They don’t help with groceries or the power bill. They rarely help watch the boys if I’m working or in school, which is why it has taken me eight years and I still don’t have my degree. “I have to look at the forms and