It was Bertha Avery’s stubbornness that worried Lois most. The woman had fallen earlier in the week and refused every offer of help except the one Lois had forced on her. So on the morning of December 6th, Lois and Clark packed up lunch, Clark’s homemade vegetable stew, fresh cornbread, and a small dessert and walked to Bertha’s door with Martha bundled against the cold.
The older woman opened before they could knock twice. “I told you not to fuss, Lois.”
But her eyes went straight to Martha.
“We’re not fussing,” Lois said, stepping inside. “We’re making sure you eat something that isn’t frozen or canned.”
Bertha sniffed. “Well. The baby can come in. The rest of you, we’ll see.”
Clark smiled and carried the pot toward the kitchen. Martha stretched her arms toward Bertha, babbling. Bertha took her without hesitation.
“You’re the cutest little thing,” she said.
They stayed the whole afternoon. Clark reheated the stew. Lois chatted with Bertha while Martha lay on a blanket, practicing her rolling. She’d rock onto her side, grab at her feet, then roll back with a pleased little grunt. Bertha kept glancing over, watching with quiet fascination. Martha’d made it from back to belly just last week, and now she practiced constantly, rocking side to side with determination.
At some point, Clark fixed a loose cabinet hinge. Bertha pretended not to notice but brought him a glass of water afterward.
Just before they left, Bertha cleared her throat and pointed to a small box on the side table, wrapped in faded floral paper.
“For the little one,” she said. “It belonged to my youngest. She dragged it everywhere. Figured Martha could give it a new life.”
Inside was a tiny plush bunny with one floppy ear. The fabric showed its age, worn soft in places, but it had been cared for: tiny, skillful stitches holding it together where a child’s love had worn it thin.
Martha squealed and grabbed it.
Lois felt something catch in her chest. Clark rested a hand on Bertha’s arm. “She loves it.”
Bertha’s mouth twitched. “Good. It still knows how to be loved, then.”
Lois had to look away for a second. “Thank you, Bertha. Really.”
“Don’t make it into something,” Bertha muttered, but her voice was softer than usual.
By the time they headed home, the sky had turned the blue-gray of early winter evening. Martha held the bunny the entire walk, humming to it in her baby language.
Later after they had eaten dinner and gotten comfortable in the living room Lois pulled out the next bag from the basket.
“Number six,” she said.
Clark untied the string. His fingers brushed something dry and familiar. He pulled out a small handful of straw, the faint scent of it rising like a memory of summers on the farm.
Lois handed him the paper. He unfolded it and read:
When his powers awakened, they frightened him.
He didn’t know where he fit in.
But his parents gave him a place to fall.
Trust that caught him.
He learned that you don’t have to be perfect to be loved.
Clark was quiet for a moment. Then he looked at Martha, still clutching her new bunny, and back at the straw in his hand.
“They never made me feel like I was too much,” he said. “Or not enough.”
Lois leaned into him. “That’s what you’re doing for her.”
He pressed a kiss to her temple.
On the floor, Martha squeezed her bunny tight and yawned.
“Should we put her to bed?” Lois asked.
Clark nodded. He scooped Martha up, bunny and all, and carried her toward the stairs. Lois placed the straw on the mantel with the other pieces, the story growing day by day.
When Clark came back down, Lois was already on the couch. He dropped down beside her and she leaned into him without a word, her head finding his shoulder like it always did.
“It’s working,” she said after a moment.
His hand found hers. “Yeah. It is.”
They stayed like that, neither one moving. The brownstone was quiet except for the occasional creak of the radiator and the soft hum of traffic outside. Clark’s thumb traced slow circles on the back of her hand.
“Bertha really loved her,” Lois said eventually. “Her daughter, I mean. You could tell by how she kept that bunny.”
“She did,” Clark agreed. “And now Martha has it.”
Lois shifted slightly, settling more comfortably against him. She closed her eyes, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
They sat there a while longer, the warmth between them enough, until Lois finally stirred.
“We should get some sleep,” she said, though she didn’t move yet.
“Probably,” Clark agreed, making no effort to get up either.
Another minute passed before they finally rose together, switched off the lights, and headed upstairs.
