Hi Mom. Hi Dad.

Bet you never expected to hear from me. I mean, seeing as how you're dead and all.

Heh heh. Heh. That was a joke.

Even if it didn't sound funny. Even if it didn't sound funny to my ears.

It was.

Yeah. Well.

What does one say to one's dead parents? "What's up?" "How are your wings?" Or, ah, horns. Equal opportunity and all . . . that. God, I hope you don't have horns.

Not that it matters, right?

Okay, I'm feeling like a moron. But really, what does one say in a letter to one's mother?

It was Moira's idea, you know. Said I should write a letter to you. Only, she said it with an accent. "Ye shood write a letter ta ye mum." (Without the "mum" part.)

I said, "Sure, Moira! Mum's the word!"

She didn't think that was very funny.

So . . .

Wonder if Moira will be pissed if I finish this letter now. It's taken me forty-five minutes to write this much.

Moira, by the way, is the person I live with. Well, not live with live with, but just live with. You know? I hope so, cuz I'm confusing myself. She took me in after . . . after they found me. The Fantastic Four came by and got me off the farm, brought me here, to Moira. It was really neat--I got to ride in their jet and everything. Never thought I'd meet the FF. It was only a few weeks ago that it happened. You wouldn't remember that. It was after you left me.

Oh, God. I didn't say that. Look, I'm erasing it!

Or not. Damn ink.

I mean, I know you didn't mean to leave me. I know it wasn't your fault--it's not like you went out and thought "hey, let's kill ourselves and leave Jamie alone!" right?

Not that I ever think that's what happened. I know differently. I know no one would do that. I mean, you loved me, you loved me a lot, and I know that.

I do.

Why would you want to kill yourselves? Silly.

And, of course, I've always known that. I mean, yeah, I was hurt at first. It was rough, living on the farm alone, y'know? It was easier after my dupes came in, though. I didn't need help, then.

I would have liked it, but I didn't need it. I didn't need you guys, so don't feel bad about, y'know, leaving. Dying. You didn't leave, you died. There's a definite difference. Cuz if you'd just left, that would have meant you didn't want to be around, and that's not it at all. Not at all. Not even a little. And it was okay, cuz like I said, I didn't need you.

I would have liked to have you around, though. I missed you. Still do. I mean, jeez, one day you were there and the next . . .

The next . . .

Do you spell "Jeez" with a J or a G? I've seen it both ways.

Okay. Now what?

I have a friend, Rahne, she's Scots. Can't hardly understand her sometimes. She's cute too--in that little sister sorta way. You would have liked her. Her parents left her, too.

Oh, shit. I just did it again. Look, Mom, I don't mean it when I say that, y'know? I just . . . it's just that I miss you so much, and I didn't want you to go. And . . . and I know it's not my fault, but I always feel like it is. I feel like if I had just done something . . . anything . . . or maybe not done something . . . I don't know anymore. Everything's so confusing. I try not to think about it, but I feel so angry. I mean, I never wanted you to go! Why'd you have to go? You left me, and I wasn't even grown yet. I needed you guys, and you left. I wanted you back. How could you leave like that? I wasn't ready to live on my own. I wasn't ready for any of that. Why couldn't you have tried harder to live, or done something else or--or--I don't know what else but there must have been something! You left! How could you leave me like that? Why? What did I do? Did I do something wrong? I mean, you both died. I should have too. But I didn't. I lived, and I lived alone and hurting and--and I hurt so much and I couldn't do anything because I had to keep the farm running, otherwise I wouldn't be able to eat. I wasn't supposed to be fighting to live, I was supposed to be out playing and chasing crickets and doing whatever else I should have done, not trying frantically to be able to eat. You didn't even tell me about my powers! I was so frightened at first. I thought it was some sort of curse, or that I was going crazy. I needed you then, to tell me it was okay, but you weren't there because you'd died. I didn't have anyone. I needed help and I didn't know what to do.

I just--

I--

I didn't know I was that angry, still. I thought I'd gotten over it. Wow.

I miss you so much, Mom. I miss you. Both of you. I look at the other guys, and they all have stories about their pasts. "Hey, James, when was your first date?" "Well, my parents died so--" foosh, they're gone. I can't talk to any of them. I can't tell them I hurt. What if I did tell them, and they left? Like you did?

I miss you. I miss you so much. I never learned how to play football. That's what parents are supposed to be for, right? Teaching kids that stuff? I missed all that.

And I didn't care. I just wanted you back. But you didn't come back. You never will come back. I used to run every time you wanted a kiss, Mom. Remember that? I wish I hadn't. I miss those, now. I would give anything to have you guys back. To have one more kiss. Or a bedtime story. Or a song. Or any number of other things.

I would give my life to be able to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not being the perfect child. I'm sorry I spent so much time crying and fighting with you. I'm sorry I can't have one last hug. I wish I could hear you say you loved me, just one more time. Just once.

And I wish . . . I wish I could remember you both better. I'm frightened of forgetting you. Memories fade. I can't remember exactly what shade of green your eyes were, mom. And, dad, I know you had dimples, but I can't remember how they looked. What if I forget everything? I don't know just what your arms felt like when you hugged me, or the tone of your voice when you said "I love you." Those are the things I miss most of all.

Dammit. I'm dripping tears all over this paper.

Dad, remember when you got so irritated because I got water all over your letter to the newspaper? That was funny. But you didn't do anything about it. Just sighed and re-typed it.

And, Mom, when I tried to cook dinner for you and burned the whole thing? That was hilarious. You actually ate it, too.

I . . . I wish I had more memories like that. I wish I could be like the other guys, laughing and groaning about their parents.

But I can't. And it's not your fault. And I'm not just saying that--I think I see that now. Oh, I still hurt, and I probably will for a long, long time. But . . . I think I'll get better. All this anger and resentment I've been carrying around . . . I think maybe it's lifting.

I'm sorry for all the things I've thought at you over the years.

You know, I liked this. This letter writing bit. Maybe I'll have to do it more often. Guess Moira was right. I may have to listen to her from now on.

Look, I love you both. I miss you horribly, but I love you.

And, if you don't mind, maybe I'll write to you again, soon, okay?

Okay.

I love you.

Love, Jamie.

***

Moira stood on a high bluff overlooking the sea. Below her, standing by the edge of the cliff, was a young man with wind-blown dark hair. He stood quietly, holding a single slip of white notebook paper.

Carefully, Moira made her way down the edge of the bluff to stand next to the man. He was quiet, contemplative. Slowly, he held the paper up to the wind and released it. The breeze caught it, carrying it far out to sea, swirling and flipping around. The two people watched it go, until it was less than a dot in the distance.

"Feelin' better, Jamie?" Moira asked, a soft Scots burr in her voice.

Jamie looked at her then, and his large, expressive brown eyes were filled with tears. "I didn't know I missed them so much," he whispered softly.

Moira nodded, wrapping her arms around his slight frame and pulling him close. She felt him bury his face in her hair, crying quietly. "There, there," she said softly, running her fingers through his dark locks. "Ye'll be all right." Now, she added mentally. She could feel the weight lifting from his shoulders, his soul shedding the grief he had been carrying for so long. He'd been young when his parents had died, and had to care for himself on his farm, alone. He hadn't had time for grief before. And like any emotion, it had turned inward and festered, transforming into anger and resentment deeply buried.

But standing on the cliff edge, Moira could feel the breeze carrying away so much of those feelings, as it had the letter to his parents. Thankfully, the Fantastic Four had brought him here--had it been only last week?--and Moira had time still to heal the boy.

"Ye're goin' ta be all right, Jamie," Moira said, comforting him quietly. "Ever'thin's goin' ta be fine."

Jamie hugged her closer, the breeze tugging at his hair. Phantom hands seemed to stroke his back as his father had done when Jamie was very young. And, distantly, it seemed he could hear his mother's voice, speaking to him of pain, and sorrow, and, most of all, love.

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Thanks to PoiLass and Kielle for Jamie-checking my facts, and helping me with his history. Thanks to Mica for beta-reading and posting this to OTL. :D

This was part of the Growing Up A Superhero series. Write to me for more.