Disclaimer: I do own these characters. For the most part. I think. Haha. I don't own their namesakes, but…. Feel free to tell me if it doesn't belong on this site. 'Cause I'm not really sure.

Anyway, this is where Chris's story begins. Enjoy :D

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"Mommy, do you still feel icky?"

I watched the concern and fear in his eyes for a moment, and decided I couldn't lie to him.

"Yes, sweetie, but I'm okay," I told him, forcing the smile on my face.

He brightened a little, then asked, "Mommy, do you want some medicine?"

I shook my head gently, still smiling. "Medicine won't do anything for me today."

His little face scrunched a bit in confusion. "But, medicine always makes me feel better."

"You're very right. Would you bring me a cough drop?"

As soon as that grin burst across his face, I knew that all he had wanted was to be able to help. I didn't think I could stomach any fluids today, but I figured a cough drop was safe enough.

It was no time at all before he was racing back into the room, his green eyes shining, and a disgustingly large bag of cough drops in tow. He jumped onto the bed and handed me a cough drop, a triumphant expression on his face.

"Here you go, Mommy."

"Thank you," I said, taking the little candy from his outstretched hand. I thanked God that Chris had picked the ones that tasted like strawberries—menthol would've made me throw up for sure.

Chris snuggled against my chest, laying the bag on my stomach.

"Mommy, do you think Daddy will be home tonight?"

"No, dear. I told you he was coming home tomorrow. Remember?"

I stroked the child's hair, wishing my husband was here now. I knew that his options had been horrid—go on the business trip, or lose his job—and that leaving had been his only choice. We needed the money right now—I couldn't have, for all of our sakes, made him stay. However, I found myself deathly afraid of being alone. It was at that time, I'm sure, that I knew I wouldn't be here much longer.

"Mommy, do you have to go to the hospital today?"

"No, sweetie. Anita will take me tomorrow."

"Good," he said. "I don't get to talk to you when you're at the hospital. I get sad, because I miss you. I don't like being sad," he said in that serious-but-adorable manner all four-year-olds seemed to adopt when sharing details of the utmost importance.

"I know. It makes me sad too, my darling." There was a small pause before he spoke again.

"Mommy, can I have a cough drop, too?"

I laughed at this. "Of course you may have a cough drop. But only if you promise to stay with me all day long."

I felt his giggle, could see that perfect, beautiful grin without looking at his face. "Always, Mama. Where else would I go?"

I felt the tears well in my eyes, and squeezed him to me. He stopped in the middle of his pursuit of a cough drop to hug me back.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"I love you," was his answer.

Chris stayed with me, as promised, all day, and how I wanted to keep him with me through the night, as well.

But I knew that this would be the last time I went to sleep.

With as normal of a goodbye as I could muster, with tears clogging my throat and filling my eyes, I kissed his nose, smelled his hair, held him to my chest.

"Good night, my baby," I said as he hopped off of my bed.

"G'night, Mommy," he answered.

"I love you," I told him. "Be a good boy. I'm so proud of you."

"Love you, too," he called back into the room, and then he was gone.

I pulled out the notebook I always kept in the drawer of my bedside table, as well as my favorite fountain pen. This was not an occasion for pencil—pencil fades.

I wrote down everything I could think to write, filling pages with my wishes, hopes, and dreams for the future, keeping myself awake for hours longer than I would have liked to. I told my husband things he already knew, and explained to Chris that none of this was his fault. I wrote of how proud I was of them, how sure I was that they would both go farther in this world than they could imagine, and they would do it together. For the most part, though, I said, "I love you." I expressed it everywhere that I could, in any way that I could, even though I knew that no number of pages could contain the love in my heart. Finally, I had no more to say—or, at least, no more that I could write. My hand had begun to cramp, my eyes to droop, and my heart to ache. If I wrote anymore, I would die broken.

I tore off a small corner of paper, wrote, "For my loves," on the top of it and placed both the notebook and this slip on Tom's bedside table.

I looked around my room for the last time, taking in the smell, the feel, the look, savoring all of the memories, both good and bad, that had sprung from this small space, the one that had been mine for six years.

"Good night, Tom," I whispered at last, and turned off the lamp.

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So, there ends this one. It'll be a couple of chapters before we get to Wonderland, and this is a collection of stories crucial to Chris's past. All the big events in his life, and such.