Author's Note: I don't own Glee or any of the characters. I don't own any recognizable, canon elements. Also, the run-on sentences in certain parts are intentional.

If you asked Carole Hudson-Hummel what she remembered before she received That phone call, she would tell you that she remembered nothing. You see, simply put, nothing mattered before That phone call. That phone call changed everything. Others would try to get her to recollect the events of that day leading up to that one moment, but she would just shake her head and say the same thing.

I don't remember.

And why did it matter? Who cares what she did earlier on in the day? Do you think she gave a damn about the groceries she'd picked up in the morning

(The frozen pizzas sitting still on the kitchen counter were no doubt unthawed by now, and it would take two hours to scrape off the congealed ice cream that has melted onto the smooth marble)

or the fact that her car stalled on her on the way home from her meeting with her accountant? Did it really make a difference what she'd eaten for breakfast, or that she'd stopped by the local florist's to smell the new bouquets of flowers because at the time, she was trying to remind herself to appreciate the "little things"?

What she didn't want to talk about was the fact that, just twenty-nine minutes before she received That phone call (she had gone back and counted), Carole had stood in the doorway of Finn's bedroom and shook her head wearily, eyeing the clothes strewn carelessly on the floor. Seriously? There was an empty laundry basket right there, next to his dresser. How did he always manage to have his clothes everywhere but in the basket? And how many times did she have to remind him to make his bed?! She loved the boy to death, but it was like she was still living with a sophomore instead of a young man in teacher's college.

(If I could take it all back)

No, no, she didn't want to talk about it. Her son was gone and all they did was talk and that's not what Carole wanted; she wanted them to tell her they'd made a mistake and the boy she'd see lying on the cold, metal slab was not actually her son and they were wrong and sorry, ma'am, you have a nice day and then she'd go home and Finn would be waiting there, unaware of what had just happened and mindlessly asking when dinner would be ready. Why couldn't they just be wrong?

She didn't want to talk about it. Unless they could bring her son back – and trust me, she considered demanding that of them more than a few times – then they had nothing to offer her. She felt like a robot. How many times had she told this story already? And every time another police officer, or a relative, or a family friend asked her to recount the events "just one more time", she had to relive it all over again.

(If I could take it all back)

Life didn't matter before That phone call. She remembered it, but she'd never admit that to you. She just didn't want to talk about it.

Carole would always look back on that moment and think to herself how she'd always heard others talk about that moment that they knew. "When the cops came to my door, I knew before I even saw their faces." "I hadn't even answered the phone yet, and I knew something was wrong."

Carole Hudson-Hummel was none the wiser. When she answered the phone that day and received That call, she was in the middle of chuckling at something she'd watched on TV. She hadn't suspected a thing.

It was the police. They spoke fast, so fast. Almost as if they were so uncomfortable with the casualties that comes with the beginning of a phone call and just wanted to get to the important part, and get it over with. Carole was confused as to why they were calling and couldn't understand what they were saying until she heard, "Ma'am, is your son's name, Finn Hudson?"

Her heart began to pound – but still, she did not think of the worst case scenario. She knew Finn had been staying out until the wee hours of the morning lately; an oddity for him, but he was also in his first year of college, and he was spending a lot of time with Noah Puckerman. Partying was a regular occurrence in college, she often had to remind herself, and her son was just doing what any other nineteen-year-old did during the years where they figured themselves out. So she assumed that Finn had gotten out of hand and was sitting in a drunk tank, scared out of his mind and wanting nothing more than to go home.

She said yes, and then turned to grab her car keys and make her way for the door, figuring she was already three steps ahead of the officer on the other end of the line. What followed stopped her in her tracks:

"Ma'am … your son was found unconscious behind the Arts and Education building at the University of Lima this morning. The paramedics were first on the scene and tried to resuscitate him, but it was too late. I'm very sorry."

There was a sort of emotionless disconnection in the cop's voice; more like he was reading from a script than delivering this kind of information to a parent. How many times had he had to say this kind of stuff? Did there ever come a point where you just stopped caring? Or was the only way to constantly survive it, to distance yourself from it all?

Dead. He hadn't said it. Not outright. But that's what he meant. Dead. Finn's dead. Dead dead dead dead dead dead he's dead he's dead he can't be dead I just saw him yesterday this can't be happening dead dead dead dead –

She thought of the moment she'd given birth to him. She'd been in labor for over thirteen hours, and she was sweaty and red in the face, and by god, she was just ready for this baby to get. Itself. Out. Of. Her. Christopher had held her hand, feeding her praises that she couldn't even hear beyond her shrieks and screams. She'd felt like her whole body would split in two.

But then there he was. One second he was this futuristic, idealistic concept, and the next, he was real. A long, but tiny ball of pink and red, and when his first cry pierced the air, Carole was at peace. She no longer felt pain … none at all. He was placed in her arms, and Christopher cried. She did too.

Her baby's eyes were wide in an innocence and naivety that would turn out to stay with him his entire life – and he looked at her, and she could've sworn that he smiled. "Finn," she whispered, and then looked up to her then-husband. "Let's call him Finn."

Burt Hummel walked through the doors just in time to see his wife drop the phone and collapse to the ground. She had passed out.

He couldn't fathom what losing Kurt would be like, but losing Finn was the next closest thing. He'd rushed in, startled by Carole's sudden fall, and tried everything he could to wake her up. "Honey? Honey?" he tried sharply, gently tapping on her cheeks, checking her pulse, fanning her with his hands. But she was out cold. Faintly, from the distance, he could hear someone calling out to Carole from the other end of the phone.

"Hello? Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson, are you okay?" the voice called.

Burt picked up the phone and held it to his ear. "This is Carole's husband; I'm sorry, my wife's fainted. Who is this? What's going on?"

And then Burt Hummel felt his blood turn to ice.

Carole awoke to find herself on the couch in the living room. Burt sat by her feet, leaning forward on his elbows. His hands were laced together and his chin was resting on top of them. He stared straight ahead and didn't even flinch when he felt her stir. Perhaps he should've. But he didn't know how to look at her just yet.

For a moment, she didn't remember. She felt like she'd just woken up from a nap, only she couldn't remember lying down for one. The day, the year, the time – they were all unknown, and she felt very scattered. She saw her husband sitting by her feet, and her brow furrowed in confusion.

"What…?" she began to say, and then, finally, Burt turned and looked at her. One look from him, and she was back. She remembered.

It was like someone had grabbed hold of her lungs and, with a quick and violent motion, gripped them and twisted. Her eyes pooled with tears and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't breathe and god, she just … couldn't … breathe …

Burt's hands were on either side of her face, and she looked to him and produced this heart-wrenching sound; like a strangled sob and an angry shout. Burt wanted to tell her exactly what she needed to hear – but what was that exactly? If he told her it would be okay, he'd be lying. He couldn't tell her they'd get through it because he wasn't ready to say those words yet. They would get through it eventually, of course they would. But not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not next week.

They would get through it eventually, but eventually was not right now. He wished they could just skip right to that part.

He opened his mouth, despite having nothing to say, and his saliva was hot and sickly sweet. There was too much of it; he kept trying to swallow it down in big, overflowing gulps, but it felt like a baseball caught in his throat. He had to be strong for Carole – she needed him, and this was his job, and if he fell apart, she'd absolutely lose it, and he couldn't do that to her, but Finn was gone and he was never coming home, and this news only really hit him suddenly as he looked into his wife's eyes and saw the features on her that had been passed down to that boy, that boy, and he was gone now, and what was the last conversation he had had with him? and when was the last time he gave him a hug? and –

He was sobbing now. She was hysterical. The only thing worse than finding out your baby boy was now dead was to have to live it all over again like this. She wondered how many more times she'd have to relive this. She wondered how many she could take.

(They'd cried for hours.)

(They spoke to the police.)

(They received phone call after phone call from friends of the family, and family itself.)

(They hadn't yet heard back from Kurt.)

(They went to the morgue.)

(Please don't let it be him.)

(It was him.)

(He was so grey and pale and lifeless and peaceful looking and it was him, it was him, it couldn't be him, but it was.)

(She screamed. Please come back! Please! She held on tight. She refused to let go. Burt could only turn his back, his hands shoved in his pockets, and let silent tears cascade down his cheeks in pairs.)

(It took four of the staff members to eventually pull her off.)

(She screamed so much.)

(They drove home. Neither said a word.)

Eventually, they walked up the stairs - gingerly, almost as if trying not to wake anyone – to make their way to their bedroom. Burt had decided once they'd returned home that Carole needed to lie down. She was too tired to resist. But once they hit the top of the stairs, Burt realized how terrible of a decision this had been. To get to their room, they had to pass by…

Carole stopped. She stared into the dark and uninhabited bedroom and saw the clothes strewn on the floor and the messy, unmade bed.

(Seriously? There was an empty laundry basket right there, next to his dresser. How did he always manage to have his clothes everywhere but in the basket? And how many times did she have to remind him to make his bed?!)

Her bottom lip trembled. Burt shadowed behind her, seeing into the room but being affected by it for entirely different reasons. In the far back corner, right on a side table, was the infamous "faggy" lamp. It was right there.

Burt couldn't do it. He knew he had to, and that he should, but he just couldn't. He placed a hand on Carole's shoulder, but she just shrugged it off, eyes never leaving the room, and hoarsely whispered, "I don't want to talk about it."

I have to get out of here, Burt thought. He felt like death was standing right behind him, beside him, all around him. And it would consume him and bring him to his knees, and all he'd be capable of doing was cry until he felt like he wanted to die. Because no amount of crying would bring Finn back – but crying's all he wanted to break down and do. He had never felt so helpless, and useless.

He backed away slightly and said quietly, "I'm going to try calling Kurt again."

Carole didn't answer. And so after a moment, Burt turned and she could hear his footsteps become softer and softer as he went back down the stairs. She loved her husband, and she knew she was taking out … this … on him by putting up a wall. But she couldn't help it. She didn't want to talk about it. She wanted her son back.

She continued to stare into the depths of Finn's room. He would never be in here again. No. She couldn't think about that. She saw his clothes and scolded herself for wasting so many moments dwelling on the fact that his clothes weren't in the laundry basket, or his bed wasn't made, or that he didn't put the cap back on the toothpaste … she obsessed over every small thing she'd ever nagged him about and even caught herself wondering, Did my son die thinking I didn't love him?

This, of course, was absurd. Carole was one of the kindest women – and mothers – you'd ever meet, but the mind has a funny way of making you turn on yourself in these "what if" times. No amount of "I love yous" and special moments can possibly make up for the times where you should've replaced lecturing and motherly talks with more I love yous. She should've never have gotten mad at him or scolded him, ever. She should've always just hugged him and said, "I love you." Right now, that was the only thing that made sense, and she hated herself for not having always done so when she had the chance.

Dead dead dead he's dead my baby's dead and I want him back and I just want to hold him no no no this isn't happening Finn baby please come back to me please

She wanted to lie down in his bed and wrap his blankets around her; she wanted to rest her head on the familiar indent in his pillow and see if his usual spot was still possibly warm from the last time he had slept there. That had only been a day beforehand. She wanted to sit amongst his dirty clothes and hold each one for an eternity, stroking the material of the cloth and memorizing the smell of it. Of her baby.

But instead, she just stood there. The inch of space separated her and the room like an invisible barrier. If she walked in, she may never leave. But she didn't want to go. She didn't want him to go.

"Mom?" She could practically hear his voice ringing through the room; and for a split second, she could see him, crystal clear, sitting on the edge of his bed. He looked up at her, and he gave her that lopsided smile that could always brighten her day. She smiled through her tears, incredulously; she couldn't believe he was sitting right there. He continued to smile up at her, and she reached out a hand, as if maybe she could touch him from all the way across the room.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

Her breath caught back in her chest and she felt like she was going to die again. Before she could think, she slammed the door shut, closing off his room from her, and slid down to the floor. She didn't know if she'd ever be able to go back in there. Maybe eventually, but eventually was not right now. She put her head in her hands and began to howl Finn's name, wishing he would hear it somehow and come back.

Burt had stood in the kitchen the entire time, staring at the phone on the counter but not daring to pick it up. He had to call Kurt, he had to call Kurt - of course he had to call Kurt. But he didn't know if he could do it. He and his son had been through so much over the years; they'd survived Kurt's mother's death and gotten through it together. This was not quite like her death.

And yet it was, too, in so many ways. He found himself at a greater loss of words than he had been when put in this same situation, eleven years before. He thought of that day. He thought of Kurt, and all he'd been through. But mostly, he just thought of Finn.

What were the last words he'd said to him? Something about "getting back at it"? What was it? School? Was that it? He couldn't remember. Had he hugged him? He didn't think so. When was the last time he'd hugged him? Had he ever told Finn he loved him?

That hit Burt, hard. He did love that kid, something fierce. Somewhere along the line over the last couple of years, Finn had truly and undeniably become a son to him. Finn was the son he'd never had; Kurt was all he needed and more in terms of who he was as a son, but admittedly, he was able to bond with Finn in a way he wasn't ever able to with Kurt. Kurt had taught him compassion, and how to open himself up emotionally. Finn taught him about forgiveness, and humility, and they even got to talk sports and work on cars together. Finn and Kurt complimented and completed each other in all respects, and together offered Burt every possible spectrum to learn, grow, and love as a father. With the two of them, he realized he'd felt like a whole dad.

And now, he felt like half of him had been ripped away. Though he had only been Finn's father-figure for a couple of years, he knew Finn was meant to be his son, just as Kurt was. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose Kurt, but losing Finn was a very close second.

He hadn't realized he'd been crying again. Quickly, he wiped away the tears with the back of his hand and cleared his throat. He needed to stop crying. He needed to be strong. With a trembling hand, he picked up the phone and dialed Kurt's number before he could talk himself out of it. And then he waited.

FROM THE NEXT CHAPTER…

The phone rang. And then it rang again. And again. And again. And each time, he would look at the screen and see if it was him calling. Each time he had hope. But every single time, his heart would drop. He was angry; angry at the world, angry at everyone calling him … angry at Finn.

He didn't want to talk to anyone else. He only wanted to talk to him. And so he let the phone ring, over and over, for hours – and he never stopped checking the screen each time it did, hoping that maybe this time, he would see Finn's name on his caller ID …