Norah started clearing dishes, trying to give them space to process whatever had just happened.
"I shouldn't have pushed him," Thomas said.
"Yes, you should have," Norah replied. "Someone needed to."
"He's going to be impossible now."
"He was impossible before. At least now he's thinking about it."
Eli spoke up.
"You think he'll actually change, or is this just going to make everything worse?"
Norah paused, a stack of plates in her hands.
"I think change is hard and painful, and people resist it even when they know it's necessary. But I also think your father is smart enough to see the difference between pride and survival. Eventually."
"Eventually might be too late," Cade muttered.
"Then we make sure it's not."
Norah continued clearing.
"Finish eating, all of you, and someone check on your father in an hour. Make sure he hasn't done something stupid."
"Like what?" Porter asked.
"Like deciding to prove he can fix everything himself by working through the night and collapsing from exhaustion."
Norah had seen it before.
Men so determined to prove their strength they'd work themselves to death rather than admit weakness.
Thomas nodded.
"I'll check on him."
After the boys dispersed, Norah finished the dishes in quiet.
Through the window, she could see Harlon in the distance.
A dark figure against darkening sky.
He was checking fence line that didn't need checking, burning off anger the only way he knew how.
She understood that impulse.
The need to move when sitting still meant feeling too much.
Later, after everyone had gone to bed, Norah sat in the kitchen with the preserves Charlotte had brought.
She opened one jar, strawberry by the smell, and tasted it.
Sweet and tart.
Better than anything she'd had in months.
She'd saved most of it for the boys.
But tonight, just for a moment, she let herself have something good.
The door creaked.
Harlon stood in the doorway, looking exhausted.
"Can't sleep?" Norah asked.
"Never could. Not since..."
He stopped.
"Not for a long time."
"Sit. I'll make coffee."
"Don't need coffee."
"Sit anyway."
He sat.
Norah poured coffee he claimed not to need and pushed it across the table.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
"Thomas is right," Harlon said finally. "About all of it. I've been trying to handle everything alone and it's not working. Hasn't been working for a long time."
"I know."
"You're also right about asking for help. About accepting it."
He wrapped his hands around the cup.
"But it's hard. Admitting I can't do this by myself feels like admitting I failed them. Failed her."
"Your wife?"
"She asked me once, when she was dying, to make sure the boys were taken care of. Not just fed and clothed. Actually taken care of. And I promised her I would."
His voice cracked.
"But I haven't. I've kept them alive, but that's not the same thing. They're angry and hurt and barely holding together, and that's my fault."
Norah reached across the table and gripped his hand.
"Then fix it."
"How?"