Martha looked up from the mound of books that lay strewn across the table in front of her and smiled welcomingly as she pulled out the chair next to her. "I wasn't sure you were coming."

Jonathan dropped heavily into the seat she offered. "I had to stay late for my lit. class," he complained bitterly, tossing his notebooks on the table alongside hers. "Apparently, Adler knows more about Hamlet than Shakespeare himself."

The corner of an exam paper protruded out from the pages of one textbook. She playfully snatched it and held out it in front of him. "So, how is World Lit going these days?" Before he could grab it back, an unmistakable 'D' glared back her. Jonathan flipped open a notebook and began scribbling busily into it, very obviously not commenting.

"Well, it's only one paper," she stammered, laying the paper down, hoping to salvage the conversation. Jonathan didn't take failure well, and she knew, at times, he thought the whole world sat in judgment of him. She could certainly empathize with that feeling.

"I bombed the test. You can say it," he answered dejectedly, dropping the pencil he was writing with onto the notebook and leaning back in his chair, still not looking at her.

"It's just one quiz. We just got back. Don't worry about it. This Saturday we'll go over some notes and-"

"I can't. I have work to do."

Well, he sure wasn't leaving any room for discussion.

He hunched over his notebook and started to write again. "Okay," she continued tentatively, turning the pages of the notebook in front of her but not really looking at them. "How about I help you with whatever you have to do and we work on some homework afterward?"

"'Fraid not."

Short response. No eye contact. Duly noted.

"I see. So when exactly do you plan on doing this work?" she asked, still being patient but getting the feeling that she'd be more successful navigating a mine field.

"I don't know."

There was no mistaking it now--"You're upset," she said more carefully.

Brilliant, she thought. Way to state the obvious. If he'd heard her, he didn't answer, just kept writing. And she was pretty certain he had. Personally, if she were him, she probably would have wanted to crawl under the covers this morning and not bother with school at all.

"I'm sure if you talk to the professors and tell them your situation, they'll give you more time. They'd understand."

The pencil he'd been writing with dropped noisily to the desk again. He rubbed at his eyes, put his face in his hands, then dropped them on the notebook in front of him and looked back at her. For the first time, she could see how red his eyes were, how tired.

"I'm not going to need more time, Martha. I'm leaving school."

Before she had time to process what he'd said, much less formulate some kind of response, Jonathan was already getting up from his chair and had begun busily gathering up his things, still avoiding looking at her directly.

"I guess it's official now. I'm a farmer and that's all I'll ever be," he said briskly, throwing one folder roughly on top of another.

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. At the end of the week I'm out of here." He paused, closed his eyes, and opened them again, slowly. "I wasn't going to say anything until later, but I guess it's just as well you know now. I'm not coming back."

By now, several pairs of eyes had lost interest in whatever they were supposed to be studying and focused on the more interesting education in front of them. Jonathan's eyes flicked uneasily from left to right and he reshuffled his things.

"Maybe we should go outside."

Martha nodded that she agreed, while he tucked what books he had under his arm. His hand went to the small of her back and guided her through the library, out into the courtyard.

"Look,"he said, stopping at the large, round fountain. "I can't do this anymore, the hours, the exams. I need to take care of things at home. It's where I belong, where I'm needed."

"Well...you can always come back next year," she suggested timidly, but even before his response, she knew what the answer would be.

"No. I can't."

She wanted to be angry. Hell, for once she wanted him to be angry. But he wasn't, and that frightened her. He looked older, his eyes having lost their youthful optimism, his stance less solid under the weight of all that had fallen on his shoulders recently.

"I'm sorry," she offered gently, taking his hand.

It was a feeble thing to say, but "Sure it's manageable" was a boldfaced lie. It was all he could do just to get part of the work done when his father was alive. And "That's okay" wouldn't be any more helpful. Martha new better than anyone how hard Jonathan had worked to try and give himself options his father had never had. The idea that all of it had, in the end, left him right where he'd started seemed beyond cruel, but that was the last thing he needed to hear. She gave his hand a light squeeze.

"Yeah, me too."

xxxxxxx

"I will not allow you to do this." Jessica Kent gaped wide-eyed at her son and dropped the pile of clothes she'd carried from upstairs onto the couch. "Jonathan Kent, I forbid it."

"Mom, I'm almost twenty years old. You can't 'forbid me.' It's not up to you. It's up to me, and I've made up my mind."

She walked around from the front of the couch and stood directly in front of her son, as if being that much closer might make it easier to understand her. "You may be too old for a lot of things but respecting your mother isn't one of them," she said. "If your father were here, he would never have wanted you to--"

"Well, he's not here."

Jonathan hadn't meant for his tone to be so harsh. Or maybe he had. He wasn't sure. Half the time he felt like he didn't know what the hell he was saying anymore. But the sight of his mother's pained expression took hold of his insides and gave a hard twist.

Mrs. Kent glanced at the floor, swallowed, and looked at him again. "Son, your father loved this place, but he loved you more. He would never have wanted you to give up your own dreams for something that didn't make you happy. He wanted so many things for you. You've given up too much already. I won't let you do it again, not this time."

He blinked in surprise. "Yes, I know about the scholarship to Met U. I saw the letter on the table after your graduation. I didn't say anything then because as long as you still found a way to follow your own path, I wanted you to be able to make your own decisions. A full load of classes, football practice, away games, they wouldn't have left much time for trips back home, would they?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

It was true. He had been offered a full scholarship. But even a year ago his father had been showing signs of his age, though he would never have admitted that he couldn't handle things. The best solution, as Jonathan had seen it, was a very light class load and a job that would still have allowed him to come and go to Smallville easily.

"Your father knew you loved him, Jonathan. You don't have to prove it."

"I know that," he said hurriedly, crossing his arms in front of himself, unable to meet his mother's gaze.

She put a hand to his shoulder. "Do you?"

He didn't respond, just kept his eyes trained on the floor in front of him and clenched his jaw tighter. "I have work to do," he said finally, and tried to move past her into the kitchen.

"Not this time." His mother spoke decisively and took her hand from his arm, pressing it to his chest, keeping him where he stood. "You can't keep running, Jonathan. How long are you going to keep this up?"

"I don't know what you mean."

She sighed and dropped her hands to her hips. "You hardly ever sleep. You come in and out of the house just long enough to eat and you barely say two words when you do. Son, I'm worried about you. If you can't talk to me, you've got to talk to someone. I'm not going to watch you run yourself into the ground."

He peered down at her from under half-lowered lids, restless and uneasy under such close scrutiny. "I'm fine, mom."

"No, you are not," she insisted.

His gaze quickly turned from apprehensive to angry. "What do you want from me? You think if I sit around and talk about what happened it's going to change anything? Are the bills suddenly going to be paid? Is everything suddenly going to be all better?" He raised a hand and pointed a finger at the backdoor in the kitchen behind her. "Is dad suddenly going to walk through that door and say 'It's not your fault'?" Though his words had been swift and sharp, his breath caught at the last.

"What's not your fault?"

Before his mother could stop him, Jonathan grabbed his coat from the back of the couch, turned and marched out the front door. Jessica followed him as far as the front porch. "Jonathan!"

He didn't stop.

TBC...