Title: Dear Mom
Author: Polly - polly122456@yahoo.com

Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Welcome and appreciated
Category: Post-Ep, Mulder POV, Angst, MSR
Spoilers: Closure; other small ones
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Chris Carter and 1013 productions.
Archive: If you want it, it's yours; just let me know.
Notes: Thanks to all those who continue to challenge me to try harder.

Summary: Mulder tries to leave nothing left unsaid.

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Dear Mom
By Polly

Dear Mom,

I'm not really sure why I'm writing this, when I know you'll never read it. I suppose it's because things were unfinished between us, and I need a sense of closure before I can move on with my life. I found it with Samantha, and now I need to do the same with you.

It was always my dream to bring Samantha home to you; I'm sorry that I wasn't able to do that until it was too late for all of us.

I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that you obviously knew more about what happened to Samantha than you ever let on. All those times I asked you, and you never said a word, yet you go to all the trouble of making a visit from beyond the grave - twice - to lead me to her.

I wish I understood why. Were you still afraid of them after all these years? Why did you burn all our pictures? Were you trying to protect yourself? Were you trying to protect me? I wish I knew why you kept silent. I wish I knew what you were trying to tell me when you called.

I wish I had called you back.

But then, you and I spent a lifetime avoiding the things we should have said to each other, didn't we? We were so much alike. After Samantha was taken, I don't remember us ever having what most families would consider a "regular" conversation - not about school, relationships, careers, or even the weather.

I never told you that I have always divided my life into two segments: Before and After. I remember before Samantha was taken you and I talked about everything. In the summertime when Dad was away a lot, you would take Samantha and me down to the beach and while she played in the surf, we'd talk. About books, movies, faraway places, sports - you knew more about baseball than any woman I've ever known. You told me how Grandpa Kuipers lived and died by the Red Sox, and how he would be crushed that I liked the Yankees.

After Samantha, we hardly talked at all. And when we did, it was usually with disastrous results.

It surprised me that you made arrangements to be buried in North Carolina, next to your parents. Of course, it always surprised me (even though I don't remember that much about him) that Grandpa Kuipers - the staunch New Englander - agreed to spend eternity planted in the native soil of his southern belle wife. I always thought that you perfectly embodied the combination of your lineage - often genteel and fragile; more often tough as nails. Both cultures were notorious, in different ways, for keeping their emotions under wraps, so I suppose you came by that naturally. Your cool exterior never betrayed what was going on just below the surface, not even to those closest to you.

It *didn't* surprise me that you had already taken care of all of your funeral arrangements, down to the tiniest detail. I'm not sure whether you were just trying to spare me the anguish, or that you thought I'd do a piss-poor job of it.

We did stray from your agenda slightly, though. We had a small memorial service for you in Greenwich. Scully suggested it. She thought your friends should have an opportunity to pay their respects and say goodbye. While none of them were shocked to learn that you had a terminal disease, some of them were surprised to learn that you had a child. I guess I deserved that. In all the times I was blaming you for not being a better mother, I never stopped to consider that I could have been a better son.

I'm sorry that we let each other down.

I'm sorry that I've learned more about you in death than I ever did in life. Last night, I went through some of your belongings and found out things about you that I never knew. I learned you were active in the garden club in Greenwich and had organized a fundraiser for the local library. I discovered you were a championship swimmer in high school, that you wrote poetry, and that you loved Frank Sinatra. I learned you dropped out of college after your sophomore year. And I learned that you were three months pregnant with me when you got married.

I learned that you were sentimental, hanging onto old love letters tied with a gold ribbon. I read them, and through the hand that wrote them I discovered that you were once a young woman filled with passion and desire, a woman very much in love.

But not with my father.

At least, not with the man I thought was my father.

So I finally have the answer to the question I asked you three years ago. I guess I knew the minute you slapped my face, but I didn't want to believe it. I still don't.

And when did Dad know that I wasn't his?

Did he marry you - do the right thing - believing that he was my father only to find out later that he wasn't?

Or did he marry you because he felt sorry for you, knowing the man who got you knocked up - his friend - refused to leave *his* wife and unborn child for his mistress and bastard child?

Was he a chump or a stand-up guy? I guess it really doesn't matter, but for some reason I'd like to know. Maybe it would help me feel better about the relationship we had - or didn't have.

Maybe it wouldn't.

While I was looking through your things I found Samantha's christening gown wrapped in tissue paper in your cedar chest. Before your burial tomorrow, I'm having it placed in the casket with you, along with this letter to you, one I wrote to Samantha, and a copy of Samantha's diary that I found at April Base. The diary you led me to. I'm laying her to rest with you; I hope that both your souls will now be at peace.

I'm sorry that I can't bear to part with the original diary. Holding it and reading it is a great source of comfort that I just can't let go. I hope you'll forgive me for being selfish one more time.

I hope you'll also forgive me for this - I'm planning to have Dad's remains moved to the cemetery here in North Carolina. I can't explain to you why it's important to me for all of you to be together, it just is; and I hope you'll understand.

Your burial tomorrow is private. Just me. And Scully. I know you only met her a few times; the first time at Dad's funeral, ironically enough. I wish you could have known her better. She has been my rock through all of this, kept me from falling apart. I owe her my life; I owe her everything. I love her. Someday I might tell her that.

Why is it so easy to know that you love someone but so hard to say the words? I can count on two hands the number of times you said 'I love you' to me in my entire life. And I said it to you even less. But I do remember the last time you said it. I lay dying in the hospital, but you believed that I could hear you. And I could. You called me your darling boy, and you told me you loved me.

I knew that you did. I always knew. But it was nice to hear it anyway. I'm sorry I didn't say it for you to hear more often.

I'm sorry for so much where you and I are concerned, but mostly that both of us left so many things unsaid for so long. And I guess that's why I wrote this, to try and leave nothing else unsaid. Mostly for my sake, but for yours too.

Because I do believe that you'll hear these words and that you'll understand.

I'll miss you, Mom. You and Dad and Samantha will continue to live in my heart. I love you.



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