December 7th 1998
Monday came faster than either of them expected.
Clark was halfway through tying his tie when the distant cry for help hit him. He froze, jaw tight, torn for a split second before instinct won.
“I have to go,” he said. “Now.”
Lois didn’t flinch. “Go. I’ll cover the briefing.”
He kissed Martha’s head, kissed Lois, and then he was gone. The curtains trembled in the rush of air.
Hours later, just as Lois finally pushed through the crowd waiting for the mayor’s statement on the recent cuts in public funding for orphanages, her pager buzzed: daycare needed someone to pick Martha up early. Fever in one of the babies. Immediate pickup requested.
Lois closed her eyes. Leaving now would kill the interview. Staying meant Martha would wait.
She pulled out her phone.
“Lucy? I need a favor, can you pick up Martha? Clark and I are both pretty tied up at the moment.”
Lucy didn’t hesitate. “On my way.”
By the time Lois finished her interview, Lucy had already taken Martha home, fed her a bottle, and cuddled with her sleepy niece on the couch as she told Lois on the phone.
***
After work when Lois walked through the door that evening, she found Clark on the couch with his head in his hands. He looked up when he heard her.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out rough. “I keep leaving you to juggle everything. Work. Martha. Emergencies. I hate that you had to call Lucy because I wasn’t there.”
Lois set her bag down and crossed to him. “Clark. Look at me.”
He did.
“You don’t leave because you want to. You leave because people need you. And because of that, we lean on the people who love us. That’s what families do. And the most important thing is: I know you always come back to us.”
He swallowed. Guilt was written across his face. She brushed her fingers along his cheek.
“It’s okay to rely on others. We’re not doing this alone.”
He nodded.
She reached for the seventh advent bag from the basket and handed it to Clark. “Come on. Let’s open this before Martha wakes up.”
He loosened the string. Inside was a tiny piece of soft cloth, a miniature blanket for the manger, and another folded slip of paper.
Lois read aloud:
His parents gave him rules to follow but didn’t crush him with them. Both provided warmth. Both protected. They enveloped him like a blanket: not too tight, not too loose. Their love transformed an alien child into a human boy.
Clark closed his eyes briefly. The farmhouse kitchen. Martha Kent’s steady voice. Jonathan’s quiet strength.
Lois touched his hand. “They taught you responsibility by giving you space to grow. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”
He leaned into her, the small blanket resting between their hands.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
They placed the tiny cloth in the wooden manger on the mantel. Another piece added to the story they were telling, not just to Martha, but to themselves.
Last edited by Kathryn84; 12/07/25 01:28 PM. Reason: Great shades of Elves - the next edit is here.
