A few months into the school year, Clark's report card arrived in the mail. Jonathan was a little nervous about what Clark's teacher would say—it could be so difficult to know what to expect—but the report was good. The teacher had evidently forgotten, or at least forgiven, the earlier "violent" incidents, and she had only good things to say about Clark.

Jonathan was thankful for that. He wouldn't have disciplined his son for low marks—not that they assigned letter grades in kindergarten—but he would have had to punish him if his teacher had written about any misbehavior. The day after Clark had misbehaved at Abigail Ross's house, Jonathan had made it very clear to him that if he was ever so disrespectful again, to any adult or to anyone, he would spend a whole weekend doing all of his least favorite chores, after a long talk with his parents. Clark seemed to have taken that seriously, though he actually seemed to be more worried about the talk than the chores.

Between the positive remarks from his teacher and the reading and writing scores, Martha was over the moon. She picked up her little boy and covered him in kisses and praises. Normally, he would be screaming with laughter, with tears streaming down his cheeks. Today, though, he gave a very slight smile, but actually winced a little while she was kissing him, and looked away while she told him about how much she loved him.

Jonathan frowned as Martha put him down. Clark had been oddly quiet ever since he'd gotten home from school. He'd done his chores, but spent most of the rest of the evening in his room.

"Hey, I have an idea," Jonathan said. "What if we all go out for ice cream to celebrate?" If Clark needed cheering up, it might have that effect; if there was something on his mind, he might be more willing to open up over a hot fudge sundae.

But to Jonathan's surprise, Clark just shrugged.

Jonathan sat down at a chair at the dining room table and lifted Clark onto his lap. "What's on your mind, son?"

"That."

Jonathan glanced up at Martha, who shrugged and took a seat next to him. "Which part?"

"Son." Clark shifted his weight on Jonathan's lap. "Some boys at school said I'm not your son, and you're not really my parents."

"Who said that?"

Clark flinched, and Jonathan instantly regretted his tone. He could deal with that part later. Right now, he needed to reassure his son.

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Jonathan exchanged a glance with Martha. They'd talked about this at length. Neither of them wanted to keep the adoption a secret from Clark by any means, but it was also difficult to bring up, since they couldn't answer any of his questions about the circumstances surrounding the adoption. Despite having had years to think about this, Jonathan didn't know exactly how to address the question Clark was asking. He supposed he had to tell the story as though it had been a normal adoption, but it would be tough to backpedal from that when the time came to take Clark down to the storm cellar.

Martha spoke up instead. "What does that mean, sweetheart?"

"What?"

"What does it mean to really be our son?"

"It means . . ." Clark frowned. "I don't know! It means you're my real parents, like their parents are their real parents. But those boys said you're not."

"Yeah?" She reached across to take Clark's hand in hers. "What do parents do? What's a Mommy and Daddy's job?"

"Take care of their kids."

"Uh huh." She nodded.

"And . . . give them food and take them to school."

"Yeah. What else?"

"Tuck them in and read them stories."

Martha reached over and hugged Clark. "How about giving hugs and kisses?"

"Yeah." Clark smiled just a bit wider this time.

Jonathan cleared his throat. "How about teaching them right and wrong?"

Clark wrinkled his nose. "I don't like that part."

Martha and Jonathan laughed—Jonathan didn't always like that part, either.

"So," Martha said, "do we take care of you and love you and teach you?"

"Yes."

"Then, we're your real parents."

"But those boys said you're not."

Jonathan wanted a private word with those boys' parents, but once again, Martha spoke before he could: "Why do they think you're not our son?"

"They said I wasn't in Mom's tummy."

"Why does that matter?"

Clark looked down and shrugged. "They said it does."

Jonathan took Clark's hand in his. "Clark, you were adopted. Do you know what that means?"

Clark shook his head.

"Sometimes, a couple can't take care of a baby when they're born. It's not the baby's fault, it's . . . for grown-up reasons. But then another couple can adopt the baby, and they become their real parents."

"I was in another lady's tummy?"

Jonathan nodded. "She's your birth mother."

"What did she look like?"

Jonathan looked over at Martha, who said, "She probably looked a lot like you. I bet she was really pretty."

"Hey, look at me, son," Jonathan waited until Clark's eyes met his, and he found himself getting choked up as he spoke. "Adopting you was the best decision we ever made. We love you so much, and you're our son, no matter what anyone says." He was definitely going to have a talk with Clark's teacher, too. He didn't know how those rumors had gotten started, but if the kids weren't being educated about adoption at home, maybe the school could help assist where the parents had failed.

Clark nodded, then turned to Martha. "Even though I was never in your tummy?"

She took his other hand. "You were never in my tummy, but you're in my heart."

Finally, he smiled widely.

Jonathan kissed his forehead and tousled his hair, then he stood up, lifting the boy from his lap into his arms as he did. "Ice cream?" he said.

"Okay, Daddy," he said, and he wrapped his arms around Jonathan's neck, nuzzling his head into his shoulder and putting just a little bit too much strength into the embrace, like he always did.