A/N: I know it's been forever since I've updated, and you've probably all given up on me. I've had a really tough couple of months with some personal tragedy so things are just starting to feel normal again. This chapter is really short and not a lot happens, but I'm hoping to tie it into some up coming chapters. Thanks for your patience, and let me know what you think.

After depositing Claire neatly in her room, John returned to his room, stripped off his clothes and stepped underneath the scalding spray of the shower. Trying to relax his tense muscles, John cursed. This was going to be the longest weekend of his life.

When he finally made it to bed, sleep was evasive. And when his body finally succumbed to the physical exhaustion, his dreams were haunted by angels with red hair and porcelain skin.

The next morning when he snuck out of this room at a quarter after seven, he had the distinct feeling he was cheating. Like the feeling he use to get when he'd sneak out of his house at the age of fifteen to smoke and drink by the lake. But he didn't care. He was a grown man, and if as a grown man he decided to take the morning off from reunion festivities it was his prerogative. And he was damn well going to exercise that.

He spent the morning in the local Starbucks reading the New York Times and drinking his Gold Coast coffee black. Taking his second coffee to go, he started to wander. He was not yet in the mood to return to the hotel but had nothing really to do. Taking a walk through his old neighbourhood, he pondered if he should stop in to visit his mother.

His father had passed away two years earlier. When he returned for the funeral his mother had barely recognized him. He stayed as long as necessary and left at the earliest opportunity and had not been in touch since. He felt some guilt when he though about it, but standing in front of his old house, he was unsure if he could ever forgive her. He had heard the saying the forgiveness is golden, but he was not sure he was capable. Parts of him still hated her.

She witnessed the horror of his childhood and did nothing but encourage the behaviour of his father. He remembered back to the days when he questioned why they had even had him. Now, he realized that it didn't matter. All that mattered was now. He smiled as he came up with his answer to the question of if he should see his mother. All that mattered was now.

He made his way up the path to the well-maintained Cape Cod and knocked on the door. When his mother answered the door with a polite look on her face she asked, "Yes, can I help you?"

John laughed quietly and replied, "It's me, Ma. It's John."

The look of shock quickly passed across her face, "Oh Johnny! I hardly even recognized you!" She exclaimed. Maybe that's why he hated when people called him Johnny. "Please, won't you come in?"

"No, Ma, I'm not here for long. I just wanted to stop in and say hello." So instead of going into the house they sat on the veranda and tried to soak up what little sun was breaking through the clouds. "How have you been?"

"Oh, okay. It's been difficult without your father, you know. Tony, our neighbour, has been very helpful with the yard work and everything." She said, looking wistfully at the old oak that grew in the yard. John nodded silently, not wanting to ruin the untarnished view she had of his father. "You should go see his grave, Johnny."

"No, Ma, I don't think so." He responded quietly.

"Fine. You know, you're just as stubborn as he was." She snapped.

"I'm nothing like him." John responded, equally as quiet and patient as his earlier comment.

"You're exactly like him, Jonathan Bender. And if you think running off to the big city is going to make you different you can darn well forget it. The apple never falls too far from the tree, Johnny, it's his blood you have in your veins."

John rose quickly, not wanting to get her upset, he simply said. "I just wanted to stop by and let you know everything is going well. It was good to see you, Ma." He said as he leaned down and kissed her cheek.

And that, he told himself, is why he was nothing like his father. His father would have lashed out, taking his anger out on a weak woman or a defenceless boy. Not John. He simply got up and walked away.

"Johnny?" His mother called, when he turned she said, "I know he had a strange way of showing it, but your father loved you." Johnny just nodded and continued on his way wondering what his father ever did to deserve such a devoted wife.