Chapter 5
The tires crunched slowly along the gravel driveway.
Clark cut the engine but didn’t move. The Kent farmhouse sat quiet at the top of the rise, its front windows catching the last light of the afternoon. He knew every angle of that house. Every board in that porch. Every creak of the front steps. It looked the same—but he didn’t.
He reached across the passenger seat and unlatched the folded wheelchair beside him. His movements were practiced, not graceful. He angled his body, braced one hand on the frame, and shifted his weight, one transfer at a time. The driver’s door stayed open behind him as he settled into the chair and adjusted the footrests.
For a moment, he just sat there.
Not quite ready.
Then the front door opened.
Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just quietly opened.
Martha stepped into the doorway and leaned against the frame. She didn’t wave. Didn’t call out. She just looked at him, eyes steady, arms folded against the evening chill.
He wheeled slowly up the path, the gravel bumping under his tires.
When he reached the porch, she was still there. Still silent.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, voice rough.
Her throat worked, but she didn’t speak. She just stepped down, reached him, and placed a hand gently on his cheek.
“You came back,” she whispered.
Jonathan looked at him a long time. Then he crossed the kitchen, put one hand on Clark’s shoulder, and said simply, “It’s good to have you home.”
Clark nodded, his throat tight. “It’s good to be here.”
Jonathan eased down into the chair across from him like it wasn’t just his knees slowing him but the weight of everything left unsaid. He folded his hands on the table. Looked Clark over again.
“You had lunch yet?” he asked, like it was the only safe place to start.
Clark gave a small shake of the head. “Not yet.”
“We’ve got stew on. From last night. Good as it was the first time.”
Martha set another mug down near Jonathan’s elbow but didn’t speak. She just sat across from Clark again, hands resting around her tea.
Clark looked at the liquid in his cup, hoping it held all the answers. “I thought about this moment a thousand times.”
Jonathan’s voice was steady. “Did you think we’d be angry?”
Clark managed a breath of a laugh. “I hoped you’d open the door. That was as far as I let myself go.”
“Once Lois found out you were back, we knew you would be back,” Martha said. “This house has always been your home. Even when you forgot how to come back.”
Clark looked down. “I didn’t forget. I just… I wasn’t sure I was still someone who belonged here.”
Jonathan leaned back in his chair. “You think love is conditional.”
“No,” Clark said quietly. “but I didn’t think I’d know how to face anyone who used to count on me.”
“You think your son only needs a dad who can fly?” Jonathan asked.
Clark didn’t answer.
Martha’s voice softened. “He needs a father. And Lois… she needed to survive. She didn’t do it waiting on a miracle. She did it by building something new.”
Clark nodded, eyes fixed on the photo still resting on the table.
“I don’t want to hurt them. Not again.”
“Then don’t,” Jonathan said. “You don’t get to fix this in a day. But you do get to try.”
Clark looked up at him. “You think I should see her?”
“I think,” Jonathan said slowly, “you should be ready for her not to want to see you.”
That landed like truth always did in this house.
Clark didn’t flinch.
“I am,” he said. “But I still need to try.”
Jonathan gave a short nod. “Then you’ll have our support. But this next part? It’s not about what you need. It’s about what they do.”
Jonathan didn’t say anything else after that. He just picked up his mug and took a long sip like he’d said all he was going to.
Clark sat back, nodding. He didn’t expect a clear path. He didn’t expect to be welcomed without conditions. But still… a quiet part of him had hoped.
Martha stood and moved toward the stove, adjusting the burner under a pot. “You’re staying for dinner.”
Clark blinked. “You sure?”
She gave him a look that said it wasn’t a question. “You’re not driving back anywhere tonight.”
His eyes veered over to look at the stairs. “But…” He started, uncomfortably, like it hurt him to bring the next words to life.
She turned to the cupboard. “Once we found out Jerome was on the way, we started building an addition onto the back of the house. The last few months of Lois’s pregnancy were hard on her and needed a place to rest without having to climb a bunch of stairs.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
He said it so naturally it almost surprised him.
Jonathan finished his tea and stood. “I’m going to check the water trough.”
He left through the back door without another word. Clark watched him go, then turned back to Martha, who was now pulling bowls down from the shelf.
“He okay?”
“He will be,” she said, not looking up. “He’s just… feeling the edges of things.”
Clark understood that more than he could say.
He stayed quiet for a while, watching the way she moved, the familiarity of her rhythm in the kitchen. He used to take that for granted—the soft clatter of dishes, the way her hand hovered over a pan before she touched it, like she was measuring the heat by instinct.
She moved like someone who’d rebuilt her peace in layers.
And he didn’t want to be the reason it cracked.
He looked toward the door, voice low. “Do they ever come out here? Lois and Jerome?”
Martha didn’t answer right away. She folded a dish towel with exact care before responding.
“They do,” she said simply. “Now and then.”
“How often?”
“Often enough that it feels like family.”
Clark nodded. That hurt more than he expected it to.
“She still keeps in touch with you both?”
Martha turned back to him. Her expression was kind but firm. “She never stopped.”
He swallowed hard.
“I don’t know what I’m hoping for,” he admitted. “Just… not to make it worse.”
Martha’s gaze softened again, but she didn’t speak. Just returned to the stove and stirred the pot on the burner.
A few minutes passed.
Then, gently, she said, “Why don’t you lie down for a bit? You’ve had a long day.”
He didn’t argue. His body felt like lead.
She showed him to the spare room. It was neat and warm. A folded quilt rested at the foot of the bed. A small fan hummed quietly on the dresser.
He transferred from the chair to the bed with practiced care, settled against the pillow, and let out a slow breath.
In the kitchen, could still hear the faint sounds of the kitchen—Martha’s footsteps, the squeak of a drawer, the soft click of silverware being set out.
He didn’t know what time it was when he dozed off, just like he didn’t know that Lois and Jerome were expected after dinner.
And neither Martha nor Jonathan had decided whether they were going to tell him.
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