A/N: It's 10:45 at night, and I just got an idea. Here I go, as I attempt to write it.

One other thing: I don't own Phineas and Ferb. You probably don't care that I put that there, 'cause it's just a legal thing so we don't get sued. But if you do care, that means you're legally interested in Phineas and Ferb, which means you probably own it, in which case, I am honoured to have you here, please sit back and enjoy.

I'm honoured to have you ALL here, owner of PnF or not. I should shut up now, and just write.

Stone Cold

Linda Flynn felt light and free as a bird. A few months ago, life hadn't made sense to her. She had had a horrible partner – falling in love with him had been an uncontrollable thing, but looking back, she didn't know why she'd been so blind. They had even considered getting married at one point – she shuddered to think about it. Although there was always the option of divorce, any sort of contract with a man like that was a repulsive thought.

Yes, she had needed a fresh start.

Aborting the baby had been the right thing to do. She already had one child from that relationship, and, to be quite honest, the girl – Candace – was whiny and grabby and annoying. Another child like that would've been too much. A fresh start, yes, that was it, no dirty after-traces of her past life, a bleak and unforgiving reality she just wanted to leave behind.

Ferb Fletcher hated his life. He was two years old and his family was already broken into crumbling pieces, bleeding at the edges. He wished that he wasn't so smart, now. He'd give up all the praise teachers had given him, all the compliments and all the surprised questions about his genius brain, just to be oblivious to the anger and hate swirling all around him.

"Whoever – invented – divorce –" he muttered to himself, slowly snapping the pencil he was holding, "Was – a – "

He crunched the pencil up in his tiny, soft hand, deciding to complete the sentence in his head instead of risking a sharp reprimand from his father.

He was so lonely, so lonely. He wanted – he needed – a friend. For the first time in his short life, he wanted to talk to someone. But there was no one there.

Candace Flynn was crying.

She pressed her face against her dolls and teddy bears, the ones she had laughed with, hosted tea parties for, sang to. She had almost believed they were real, sometimes, but always, there was that nagging itch at the back of her brain that told her they weren't, that they were just stuffed toys.

She had come so close to having a real baby. A real baby to cuddle and teach, to push on the swings. Her mom was going to give her a brother. She had promised her a brother.

But then, suddenly, it all died. The happiness, the laugher, the light – and the baby. Candace didn't really know where her brother had gone. She hoped he was in heaven.

Her mom had broken a promise. Her dad was leaving, leaving forever, and her brother was dead. Her mom had wanted it that way.

She didn't understand adults. She didn't understand them at all.

Nicholas Eton had serious depression – life didn't seem worth living anymore.

His head rested on the steering wheel of his car – he was too tired to keep it up. He shut his tired eyes and tried to drown his troubles in the music blasting from the radio, and the can of beer in his hand. He'd never see his daughter again. Little Candace had been his pride and joy. Now she was gone, along with the love of his life. The love who had declared she couldn't stand the sight of him.

Linda Flynn had abandoned him.

He took another swig of beer, trying to forget, and knowing it was hopeless. The worst pain was coming from a place he had never expected – the anticipation of a new son, killed stone dead by his girlfriend's hatred. He hadn't known it would hurt so badly, losing that child. At least he knew Candace was out there in the world, safe and sound. His son wasn't in the world anymore.

Phineas Flynn – was dead. No one gave him a chance, a chance to breathe, a chance to laugh. No one gave him a chance to run through the sprinklers on hot summer days. No one gave him the chance to sit with a best friend under a spreading tree.

Phineas Flynn was dead.

I. Am. Not. Sorry. I. Wrote. That. Some of Linda's POV was pretty painful to write, though, since it went against so many of my passionate beliefs. Guys, I appreciate reviews. Thanks for reading.

Every good and perfect gift is from above – James 1:17.

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Every good and perfect gift, including a new life, a new child.