*This one is for my mom, with all my love. Everything I know about being a good mom I learned from @BonnieNikkel. She even followed me to Wattpad and that is true love from a 70-something. *

{Jon}

The next morning Jon's head was stuffy but felt no more fragile than a normal head-cold. Cautiously, he swung his legs over the side of his bed and stood, leaning against the walls to get to the bathroom upright. He ran a very hot bath, his second in as many days and he wasn't sorry. It was not near as fun without Kurt, but the heat eased the tension in his neck and shoulders and his face felt open and clear when he was done. Clean and in a clean set of yoga pyjamas, Jon felt more like himself than he had in forty-eight hours.

Also, ravenous. The house smelled like Kurt had been cooking soup before he left for work.

Jon eased down the stairs one at a time on his butt and swayed into the kitchen.

His mother was stirring a pot on the stove, her apron buttoned around her ample hips, her greying hair in a loose ponytail at the back of her neck. A symphony orchestra was playing on the television, and apparently she had not heard him come down.

Almost tripping over his own feet, Jon backed out of the kitchen into the hall, leaning against the wall to catch his breath. Kurt had not said anything before he left--had Mel just come over on her own? Jon did not feel up for this today--making words for his mom that wouldn't trouble her any more than necessary.

If he wasn't so hungry his legs were about to give out on him--and if that soup on the stove didn't smell so good--he would have crept back upstairs to pretend to sleep all day.

Kurt's words came back to him, and Jon took a breath. She's showing up for you now and it's December for her same as you.

How petty would it be if he threw away a chance with the mom he had when Kurt longed for even this much, just a mom who took his calls when he needed help? His partner's story made Jon aware again just how good his parents were, even if they weren't perfect by a long shot.

It also made him angry as hell, but that was a whole other thing. He would kick it into the bag downstairs when he was feeling better.

In the end, Jon's body made the decision for him. His head was spinning gently, done with standing, and he shuffled to Cary's big man chair and huddled gratefully in it's sturdy embrace. Jon rested his head against the argyle fabric and closed his eyes to just breathe a bit.

"Jon--you're up," his mother said, happiness in her voice.

"Hey Mom," Jon said softly without opening his eyes.

"I thought I would pick up a few groceries for you men and make some chicken soup and rice. Bone broth is just the thing for a cold. Your dad swears by it." He could hear her worry. "You haven't been answering your phone so...I texted Kurt."

Jon couldn't remember yesterday very well but he was afraid that he might not have been very friendly, drugged up and in pain and unpleasantly surprised by her first visit.

"It's fine you're here," he said. "I'm feeling better today."

It was quiet a moment. "You're a little pale, honey," Mel said. "Can I get you anything to eat or drink?"

Jon opened his eyes, looking at her concerned face and hands clasped tightly at her waist. He could get it himself--he wasn't incapable of making it to the sink for a cup of water and a handful of crackers. "Sure," he said. "Thanks Mom. Soup smells great."

She smiled. "Ready in twenty minutes. I'll just put on tea and toast to start."

If he kept his head still and avoided watching the TV screen, Jon felt pretty normal--if his normal had ever been curled motionless in a massive armchair. He made small talk with his mom while she made the tea--what program was she watching? How were the girls today? What was in her soup recipe? He didn't always remember to open his eyes and animate his face when she was looking.

Mel brought the toast plate and tea cup to the arm of his chair, setting the back of her hand against his forehead briefly without comment. Jon fell on the food; the stiff gluten-free bread and honey and peanut butter tasted like heaven. His mom climbed the stairs and returned with a blanket, laying it over the arm of his chair.

Licking honey off his lips, Jon gratefully dragged the extra weight and warmth over his body.

"You don't have to entertain me, Jon," Mel said, giving him a small smile. "I'm just here to do some cooking and then I'll be out of your way. I know how much you value your personal space."

Jon was quiet, watching her move around his kitchen. The dishes were done and the bouquet of evergreens and roses had fresh water--he was suspicious his mother had cleaned up after him. He wanted to say: thank you, yes good bye. I'll see you on Christmas, and have the day to himself.

He thought of Kurt saying At least your mom cares if you're dead or alive. And she did care, now. Jon couldn't honestly say he had no idea what it felt like to be so overwhelmed with darkness that you just wanted to erase yourself from the moment. He'd assumed having a child would anchor a person better to a desire to live--but maybe the dark was still dark when you were a parent.

"You can stay," he said. "It's fine, Mom. Thank you. For caring."

Her laugh was a little tired. "I don't think you know how wary I am of that word now, Jon."

"What word?" he asked, puzzled.

"Fine." She met his eyes, her own a deep lucid blue the colour of summer flowers. "I never trust 'fine.'"

Jon lifted his chin to hold her eyes but he didn't know what to say.

She turned away, pulling down a bowl. "Do you want some of this soup now?"

"A little," Jon admitted. "I ate nothing but your toast yesterday." He thought of what Kurt would want to know and what harm it would do to give his mom a little of that too? "I'm better than yesterday...is what I mean by 'fine.' My head's a little dizzy still. And I think you know I'm not...good at chat. At the best of times."

She gave him a smile over her round shoulder, her soft mouth and wry expression so much like the one he saw in the mirror. "We don't need to chat," Mel said. "We could--talk. If you wanted. Or be quiet together. I like the quiet too. In our family--you and I are a lot alike, Jon."

Jon's return smile felt like a flinch and he turned his face away, sighing quietly. That was probably more true than he liked.

This was the other thing that made his mom hard to be around for lengths of time: the older Jon got, the more he felt like he knew--he held in his own body--the potential for darkness as deep as hers. He never wanted to inflict the fruit of that depression on the people he loved--and he'd done it already by accident to Cary. Jon hadn't meant to overdose that morning, three years ago. He'd run over his memory of that day over and over; he couldn't find where he wanted to die when he swallowed the handful of Oxycodene and Tylenol 3. Jon had counted out what seemed reasonable to just...feel better. He'd just wanted to feel good and go on with his day.

Jon knuckled his eyes and unloaded all his sorries into Jesus' lap again. He'd said it a dozen times to Cary and he knew Jesus and Cary still loved him. It was past. He was doing everything he knew how to do to never be there again.

Mel brought him a steaming bowl of soup and Jon cupped it gratefully against his chest. "Thank you," he said low. He ate every delicious drop while she sat at the table having a cup of tea and a shortbread. The silence was more comfortable knowing she didn't need him to keep filling it with words.

Maybe it was time to ask this question. Maybe that was the next right thing for him to do to look after himself for the people he loved. There could hardly be a safer moment, in his own home with no one listening.

"Mumma?" At that word, Mel's eyes flashed to him and her eyebrows lifted. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Sure honey," she said, touching her tea cup to her lips while she waited, a worried little line in her forehead.

He tried to phrase it right. "When did you...know you had depression?"

Her expression softened and she leaned her cheek in her hand. "Oh." She sighed and smiled, her eyes soft with sadness. "I guess there were signs when I was thirteen--fourteen? We weren't very good at naming these things then. When your brother was born my doctor told me I had post-partum depression. And I thought...this is just a darker shade. Of what I have often felt. Like the weather. Some days were just overcast or...downright heavy with fog." Mel leaned back, rubbing her face and Jon pushed the heel of his hand against the bumps of healed bone on his chest. His mom was okay now--and it wasn't his job to make sure.

"When we found out we were pregnant again--with you, Jon," She touched him with a soft smile. "We were so happy to know we were having another child. But Peter and I were also...afraid. I had just emerged. I'd had a few months of feeling like I had energy again, my head was full of light and space. So we prayed," she said simply. "Every night. Peter put his hands on me and Judah would put his hands on my big round belly and pray 'for the baby.'"

Mel laughed softly at the memory, and Jon's breath caught imagining this--his entire family putting hands on him and lifting him up before he was even born. "That's where the tent prayer comes from, did you know that? You were exactly the gift I prayed for," Mel said. "You slept through the night; you latched well; you cuddled me all day long. And it felt as if post-partum didn't hit as hard. Of course, I was more prepared. I did all the things they recommended, even post-natal yoga which I couldn't tell my Christian girlfriends was yoga. 'Stretching class.'" She made the quotes with her fingers.

Jon laughed softly with her; he'd had exactly those conversations at his workplace when staff saw him doing a warrior pose in the kitchen to loosen up after a long night shift.

Mel sighed, a crumb of that laugh still in the dimple of her cheek. "We thought we licked it. Cracked the post-partum code and depression was behind us." Her face clouded. "I had no idea. The way Judah's illness would--" She laid her hand against her chest, making a scooping motion. "Take the life out of me. And instead of a baby to hold at the end...I put my baby in the ground." She swiped tears off her face, blew out her lips, and made a smile for him.

Jon's arms knotted over his chest under the weight of the blanket and he pressed a smile back for her. His own eyes were dry as a bone.

"One of my babies," Mel corrected herself quietly. One side of her mouth tucked in. "I'm aware," she said dryly, "That I lost my perspective for a bit. I lost sight of you." Jon closed his eyes, taking a slow, steadying breath.

"We finally got a diagnosis," Mel said. "And maybe I would have been embarrassed if someone had told me earlier that I had depression--but it felt like a life line. Just the thinnest hope. If I was sick--I could be treated." She was quiet a moment. "So. That's the long answer to your question. I've always been grateful...you were too young to remember that time."

It cracked Jon's chest open and he made a soft sound. "Mom. I remember you." Swiftly, he brought his hands up to cover his eyes, which were spilling over with heat and tears like that crack went all the way up to the top of his head. He took a huge breath, filling his ribs and then letting it go. He wasn't carrying this alone anymore. He shook the tears out of his eyes, sniffing hard and looking in her face, trying to smile. "You're my mom. Of course I do."

Her hands were clasped tightly on the table and her tearful face matched his.

"Me 'n Dad prayed for you every night," Jon said. "An' I..." He held out a hand to her, almost unable to say the words. "I found you. I called 911."

Mel drew back, her face creased with confusion. "I thought it was your father."

Jon shook his head once. "It was me."

White and wide-eyed, Mel pressed her hands against her chest. "Jon. You are an amazing person. I--was out of my mind. And if I'd had to stand before the Lord that night and answer for leaving you and Pete behind I'm not sure if even heaven could've dried my tears over that. I've always been so grateful--and I didn't know I had you to thank."

Overwhelmed, Jon pulled the blankets over his head. A raw sob pressed out of his body. He was also grateful. He could have taken the little child he had been in his arms and kissed his round freckled cheeks for remembering that phone number and having the presence of the mind to call. But what he hadn't known was his mom felt like he did, the day he woke up in a hospital bed with an aching throat from the tube they stuffed down it to pump his stomach and Cary asleep in the chair next to him. Alive, thank God. She wasn't sorry he'd caught her back from death--she didn't want to leave him.

Gentle hands rested on his clenched shoulders and his mom kissed his head through the blanket. "Oh my goodness, what a scary day that was for us," she said in a wobbly voice. "And what a gift you are, Jon."

He pushed his arms free of the blanket, wrapping her soft shoulders up and hanging on tight.

"I'm so sorry it was you, honey," Mel whispered.

"I'm not," Jon said fiercely. He rubbed his face into her nubby knitted sweater. "I love you, Mom."

They cried together and laughed over their puffy faces after. Mel made him a coffee and they ate shortbreads and seconds of chicken soup in comfortable silence. Then his mom kissed his forehead and bundled up in her jacket to head home to make supper for the rest of their family.

The silence of his own home lapped over Jon, warm and safe. His face smelled like his mom's patchouli lotion, and Misty found him, jumping up to curl, purring, in his lap.

He felt like he was loved. It seemed as if his mom today had gone into that childhood memory with him, looked on the woman lying on the floor of the bathroom and put her arms around the child Jon had been to put all her strength into his little body so he could roll her over and save her life for them both.

Or maybe it was the good God in whom they lived and breathed and had their being, as that old scripture passage said, that put Their everlasting arms around them both.

Jon was dozing beside the Christmas tree when Kurt and Cary came home. His brother lifted his dark shaggy head, sniffing as he came in. "Smells like Mom's chicken soup," Cary said.

Kurt glanced around the doorway and his face lit up. "Hey love, you're up."

Jon held out his arms, returning his smile, and Kurt perched on the chair arm to embrace him, smelling of sweat and fresh paint.

"Mom was here," Jon said. "She made supper for us."

Kurt pushed his hand through Jon's hair, checking his face. "You been cryin', Jon?" he asked softly.

"Happy tears," Jon said, and Kurt's blue eyes narrowed in a smile. "Kinda overdue. I'm good, Kurt."

2730 words.

*It felt to me like maybe the story was done with this scene, but since I wrote it a couple more chapters emerged. We do have a dog we promised to get Cary, and I'm curious to know what Kurt bought Pete for Christmas, are you?

What do you think--should I end the story here? What feels like it needs a little last attention to you?*