The Ledger of Love

In a quiet village near Hippo Regius, lived Lucilla, a devout Christian widow known for her unmatched generosity. She owned a modest olive grove, and every harvest season, she would distribute much of her oil to the poor — scribes, shepherds, sick travelers — anyone who knocked.

Her son, Quintus, a merchant returning from Carthage, was disturbed by her ways.

“Mother,” he once scolded, “you give to everyone — do you even know how much you’re losing?”

Lucilla smiled. “I do not measure what I give, son. I only measure what I withhold. And I find... very little.”

Quintus, hardened by trade and numbers, started keeping a ledger — recording each gift, each unpaid debt. He kept trying to balance her kindness with coin.

Then came the drought. Olives withered, trade collapsed, and Lucilla fell ill. The doctor refused treatment until an old bill was paid — one that Quintus, furious, refused to honor.

Lucilla died that night, without complaint, her last breath whispered: "May love remain immeasurable."

At her burial, villagers came in hundreds. The priest read aloud letters, stories, and blessings from those she'd helped — one of whom turned out to be a nobleman in disguise, healed once by her oil and care.

In honor of Lucilla, he built a public fountain where all could drink freely. A small plaque was carved:

"The measure of love is to love without measuring."

And beneath it, a broken ledger — pages blanked by rain.