Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not my characters.

Author's note: I once floated the idea of writing a sequel to "The Letter." It took a very long time, but I've finally got that sequel finished! For those who've never read the original story or have forgotten it by now, the link is in my profile.

Yet another big thank you to Smallvillian for her skilled editing and her patience. I should also give credit to one of my favorite living writers, Jan Karon. A scene from her novel These High, Green Hills was really helpful in establishing the mood for this.

Postscript

"Jonathan? Are you still out here?"

Up in the loft, Jonathan cleared his throat and tried to call an answer to his wife, but he couldn't get the words out. He could have just stood up and walked over to where she could see him, except that his legs appeared to have turned to Jell-O. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, fighting to get control of his emotions.

"Jonathan?" He heard her voice sharpen with panic and knew what had come into her mind. Again he cleared his throat and made another effort.

"Up here, sweetheart!" It sounded pretty meek and shaken, but at least it was loud enough for her to hear.

He heard her quick steps on the stairs. "Honey, what—" She broke off when she reached the top, her eyes widening as they fell on his tear-stained face. "Jonathan! What's the matter?"

"Nothing, Martha. I'm fine."

She looked unconvinced as she hurried towards him. "Honey, you and Clark didn't have a fight, did you? He just came tearing into the house and up the stairs like the police were—" It was then that she caught sight of the letter he was holding. "What's that?"

Jonathan looked down at it too. "Clark had this school project—" he began slowly.

"Oh, you mean that letter he had to write?"

He nodded.

"But I thought he said something about writing to Lana." Martha sounded even more puzzled as she came around to sit on the couch beside him.

"He, um—" Jonathan had to stop and take a breath. "He changed his mind."

Unable to think of anything else to say, he passed her the sheet of paper—almost reluctantly, as if he could hardly bear to let go of it even for a few minutes.

She took it, still studying him with open concern. But as her eyes questioned him, he just nodded again at the letter in her hand. With a small sigh, she settled back on the couch and turned her attention to it.

After a few seconds, he saw her eyebrows go up. She must have reached the part about his conversation with Clark last spring. Jonathan dropped his gaze to his hands, twisting them together in his lap. He had never mentioned that conversation to Martha; he'd felt too ashamed of dumping all those feelings on a sixteen-year-old boy who had troubles enough of his own. Clark must not have told her about it, either.

Jonathan sat still, eyes down, as Martha kept reading. He could tell when she was finished by the long breath she drew and then let out.

"Wow," she murmured.

He still didn't look up, even as he felt her eyes on him. "Yeah," was all he could manage.

She sat looking at him for a few seconds, before laying the letter in her lap and placing a hand on his.

"You should be very proud of this, Jonathan," she said tenderly.

An impulse he couldn't control caused him to flinch and turn away from her, lifting his hand to cover his eyes. Martha drew hers back hastily, as if afraid her touch had hurt him, her face startled.

"Jonathan—what is it?"

He didn't know where to begin. "I—I don't . . ." He closed his eyes briefly and rested his forehead on both hands, searching for words. Clark's letter had given him such joy—at first. How could he explain to her the pain he was starting to feel, now that his son's words had had time to sink in?

"Sometimes," he whispered, "I look back, and—and all I can see are—mistakes."

Martha tentatively put out a hand and laid it on her husband's shoulder. This time he remained still. She began rubbing the back of his neck, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. She was aware that by "mistakes," he didn't mean losing his temper with Clark for constantly leaving the gate to the cow pasture open at the age of ten.

"Do you think the deal with Jor-El was a mistake?" she asked at last.

She felt him tense under her hand. Though they had talked about what had happened between him and Clark's biological father a few times since the summer, she knew he never felt comfortable discussing the subject. And she had never asked him that particular question before.

But she stifled her impulse to take it back, or to rush to fill the conversational void that suddenly stretched between them. He needed to talk about this. They both needed to talk about it. She simply sat there, her eyes fixed on his downcast profile.

"I—don't know," he answered softly.

Again Martha bit back the words that wanted to come. She kept a steadying hand on his neck, letting the silence grow until he broke it again, his voice still not far above a whisper.

"Every day . . . " he began haltingly. "I think about Clark—trapped in that place." A convulsive shudder went through him, and he closed his eyes again. Martha felt tears prick her own eyes. "And you, left alone all summer. And I think—there must have been some other way. . . ." He trailed off.

"What other way could there have been?" Her tone was gentle but insistent.

He shook his head. "I don't know," he said again, helplessly.

Martha hesitated, watching him brush impatiently at another tear trickling down his face. She knew her husband so well. His own personal Eleventh Commandment, Keep the family together and safe, was etched in his very soul. Ever since that day in the cave—no, it went even further back than that. Since the day Clark had run away, full of guilt about their baby and afraid to face them again, his father had been struggling with his own feelings of failure and shame. None of Martha's words of comfort had ever been able to take away the sting.

And now, ironically, Clark's words of praise had stirred up all those feelings again.

Resolutely, Martha moved her hand up to Jonathan's face and turned it towards her. He didn't resist, though his eyes were still stubbornly lowered.

"You said it yourself," she reminded him, her words low and even despite the lump in her throat. "You said that if you didn't do something, we would lose him forever. Don't you remember?"

Jonathan swallowed. "We lost him anyway."

"Not forever. Not the way we would have lost him if you hadn't gone after him. Clark is right—you did what you had to do. You got him home. And after that—"

She had to pause and collect herself before she could go on. It was hard to say this, hard even to think about it, but it needed to be said.

"One way or the other, Jor-El would have taken Clark. He was determined." Just the thought of Clark's biological father was beginning to make her voice tremble. It was Jonathan's turn to reach up and put his hand over hers. She gripped it and found the strength to continue.

"But you did everything you could to stop him, Jonathan. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You are the father Clark loves—the one he came back to—the one he'll always look up to. Without you, he'd have no idea what a real father is."

At last, slowly, Jonathan raised his red and swollen eyes. Martha met them squarely, smiling a little through her own tears. She had told him something that day, all those weeks ago, when he had finally awakened out of his coma. From the doubt that still haunted his eyes, she knew he needed to hear it again.

"I'm proud of you, Jonathan."

She picked up Clark's letter and held it out to him. "And so is your son," she added softly.

As his fingers closed on the letter, she drew his head down on her shoulder and rested her cheek on it. Neither of them said anything more for a long time. But the strain was gone from the silence. Martha felt Jonathan starting to relax against her, despite the occasional strangled sob that still shook him. If she could have seen it, there was a new peace in his eyes. A wound that was deeper than either of them had realized was beginning to heal.

The End