Chapter 6
The first thing he registered was the sound of voices.
Clark blinked awake, the light in the room dimmer now, stretched long and gold across the floorboards. The air had cooled. Somewhere in the house, footsteps moved softly across the kitchen.
Then—
“He’s really here?” Lois’s voice, low and uneven.
Clark’s breath caught.
“I didn’t expect him to be here. Not after what happened at the press conference. He heard me. He knew it was me. And he still walked away.”
Silence.
Martha’s chair creaked as she sat back. “He didn’t say much. We didn't push. He came in through that door like he wasn’t sure he’d make it past the porch,” she said. “He seemed nervous, uncertain. Like just putting thoughts into words could break everything to pieces.”
Lois didn’t say anything.
“He looks older,” Martha added. “Tired. But more like himself than I expected.”
“How is he?” Lois asked, her voice low but immediate. “Did he say where he’s been? Did he say why he decided to come back? Did Zara and Ching find them when they were here?”
Clark unknowingly held his breath.
He hadn’t known how much Lois already knew—hadn’t known how much she would want to know.
And now that he heard it, he didn’t know how to answer any of it.
Martha didn’t speak right away. “We didn’t get into any of that. It was like the trip alone had worn him out. I don’t know if it was physical or emotional exhaustion—maybe it was both. Anyway, I told him to lie down and rest until dinner. I didn’t tell him you’d be here in time for it.”
Clark let his head rest back against the pillow, eyes on the ceiling, though the afternoon light had dulled into evening.
He could hear the soft clink of dishes. A kettle set on the stove. The kind of ordinary sounds that used to mean comfort. Home.
He didn’t move.
Lois hadn’t said anything more. Maybe she was still standing near the doorway, arms folded tight like she did when she was trying to keep herself from running. Maybe she’d stepped out onto the porch, needing air.
Maybe she wondering how far away forgiveness really was.
He hadn’t expected to hear her voice through the walls.
And now that he had… he wasn’t sure how to get his own voice back.
A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house.
Then another.
Not Martha’s.
Lighter steps. Slower. Familiar in a way that made the breath catch in his throat.
She was moving.
Whether toward the living room—or toward his door—he couldn’t tell.
But he knew two things with absolute certainty:
He didn't want her to see him like this.
He hoped she’d knock.
And those two thoughts stood in complete opposition to each other.
A shadow moved across the floor just beyond his doorframe.
The steps slowed.
Clark held still.
Then Martha’s voice came from the kitchen—warm, light, purposeful.
“Lois? Can you grab the bowls from the sideboard?”
The footsteps paused. For a heartbeat, he thought she might ignore it.
But then she turned.
He heard her move—back across the floor, back down the hall, toward the kitchen.
Only when the creak of the floorboards fully faded did Clark let out a breath.
He waited a few seconds longer. Then shifted.
The blanket slid back as he sat up, slow and steady. He reached for the armrest of the chair beside the bed, pulling it closer. The transfer wasn’t easy—never was—but he managed it without slipping.
Once settled, he adjusted the footrests, brushed a hand through his hair, and faced the door.
If she knocked now, he’d be ready.
Not whole.
But not hiding, either.
He sat still for another beat, listening.
Nothing but the faint clatter of bowls now. No footsteps outside his door.
Clark reached for the doorknob.
His fingers hovered over it for a moment, then closed around the metal. He turned it slowly—quietly—and eased the door open just enough to see into the hallway.
No one was there.
But the house smelled like dinner now. Like warm bread and herbs and steam, soft and real. Familiar in a way that twisted in his chest.
He looked down the hall toward the kitchen.
The murmur of voices—Martha’s, then Lois’s—rose and fell in the next room. He couldn’t make out the words.
He placed one hand on the doorframe to steady himself. The threshold felt like more than just wood and paint. It felt like a line.
And he wasn’t sure what waited on the other side of it.
But he moved forward anyway.
Clark gave the smallest nod. “Mind if I join you?”
“Never,” Lois said, her voice raw with emotion.
He eased forward, positioning himself at the table.
They sat like that for a moment—two people in familiar seats, surrounded by unfamiliar silence.
Clark finally spoke, voice low. “You look different.”
“I am.”
Another pause. Then Clark added, “Me too.”
Lois didn’t answer, but her mouth twitched like she might have smiled. Or might have tried to.
Neither of them seemed ready to say more.
But neither of them left.
The kitchen filled with the soft, comforting clatter of plates being set down, the scrape of a chair as Martha moved past behind them.
Clark glanced sideways, just long enough to take her in. Her hair was longer than he remembered and much lighter as well. She wore it down now. No makeup. No armor. Just the faint crease of tiredness around her eyes—and something else. Resolve.
He looked away before she noticed.
Lois didn’t speak. She was tracing the edge of her mug with one fingertip, slowly, like it gave her something to hold onto. Her other hand was resting on the table, palm down, as still as stone.
Clark wanted to say a hundred things.
He didn’t say any of them.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. A heavier tread. Then Jonathan’s voice, low and easy, called “Jerome, wash up.”
A second set of feet came skimming in. Lighter, quicker, full of life. The kind of rhythm Clark hadn’t heard in years. Lois rose and turned toward the doorway just as her son appeared, tugging his sleeves up past his elbows. He stopped just in the threshold. Clark saw it hit him—the hesitation, the blink, Lois had told him stories but this wasn’t a story. This was a man he didn’t know in a place he thought he knew. Clark set still.
Lois stepped to the side, placing a gentle hand on Jerome’s back. “Come on in, sweetheart. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Jerome didn’t move at first. His voice was quieter than usual when he finally asked, “Is that him?”
Clark’s throat tightened.
Lois nodded, her vice steady. “Yeah, baby, that’s him.”
Jerome looked back at Clark, more cautious than curious now. “You don’t look like the pictures.”
Clark offered the smallest smile. “I don’t feel much like them either.”
A silence stretched just long enough to feel like something might break it.
Then, Jerome stepped forward.
Not fast. Not sure. But enough.
Clark didn’t move. Didn’t try to speak again. He just watched as the boy made his way into the kitchen, his eyes flicking from one detail to the next like he was checking to see if the stories had gotten it right.
Lois kept a steady hand on his back, guiding him without pushing.
Jerome stopped in front of Clark. “You’re my Dad?” he asked quietly.
Clark tried to swallow the lump in his throat. It stuck. He nodded. Finally, he managed to whisper, “Yeah. I am.”
Martha, trying to keep herself from falling apart with the tenderness of the moment — knowing any tears would only make things more confusing for Jerome — moved to the oven and pulled out the pan. Something golden and crisp inside. The smell of roasted chicken and herbs filled the room, grounding everything in something warm and familiar.
“Table’s ready,” she said, just like any other night.
Jonathan came in from the back door, brushing dust from his hands. “I hope someone set out butter.”
“I did,” Martha replied.
They all took their places. Lois sat beside Jerome. Clark took the spot nearest the end, not quite across from them but not far either. Martha and Jonathan filled the remaining chairs.
For a moment, it was quiet.
Just plates shifting. Glasses filled. The clink of silverware.
Jerome peeked at Clark again, then at his plate.
“Do you like chicken?” he asked suddenly.
Clark blinked. “Yeah,” he said, surprised. “I always have.”
Jerome nodded like that checked out.
Martha smiled without looking up from the serving spoon. “Lois makes a great lemon and rosemary roast. Jerome won’t eat the skin, though.”
“It’s weird,” Jerome said, shrugging.
Clark gave the smallest smile. “You’re allowed to have opinions.”
“Good,” Jerome said, “because I have a lot.”
That got the first real laugh—soft, shared between Martha and Jonathan. Lois’s shoulders relaxed by half an inch.
They ate. Slowly. Carefully.
Clark said little, but he listened closely. He watched the way Jerome talked with his hands—animated and unfiltered, like someone who hadn’t learned yet to be afraid of his voice. He watched the way Lois leaned in, catching every word.
At one point, Jerome picked up his fork, twirled it, and asked, “Did you know I was here?”
Clark looked at him, steady. “Not for a long time. I didn’t know you existed until recently.”
Jerome considered that. “So you didn’t leave because of me.”
“No,” Clark said, quiet but certain. “Never because of you.”
Lois didn’t speak, but her gaze flicked toward Clark, unreadable.
Jerome looked down at his plate. “Okay.”
The word was small, but not dismissive. Just… filed away.
Martha reached for the salt. “We planted strawberries last week,” she said to Jerome. “Next time you come, you can help me check on them.”
“Can we make jam?”
“If we don’t eat them all first.”
Conversation drifted. Nothing heavy. Nothing brave. Just enough to get through dinner.
When it was over, Jerome helped Lois carry dishes to the sink. Martha stood to brew tea. Jonathan wiped the crumbs into his hand and stepped out to the porch, like always.
Clark stayed where he was.
He hadn’t said enough. But for tonight, he also hadn’t said too much.
And that felt like the best he could offer.
