Title: Letters from Lizzie

Summary: Lizzie Hummel left behind so many things. A life, a son, and a box full of letters. Burt struggles to raise his son and uncover a love that never truly died. AU.

Notes: Well, this is my first attempt at a multichaptered fic. I promise to try and update frequently! I'm not sure if this has been done before, but I love Hummel family fics, so I thought I'd try and give a little spin to it. This is slightly angsty as it goes on, so beware if you don't like that sort of stuff. I'll post a warning wherever I feel necessary. Letters from Lizzie is AU-ish, because I have taken a few clear divergences already. However, I will try to keep as close to Glee as possible. Enjoy and review, please!

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee.

Prologue

Dear Burt,

I'm so sorry to do this to you.

Kurt looked like his mother.

His slender frame was almost weightless in my arms as I carried him towards the door. His pale face was peppered with freckles and constructed of elfish features. His delicate curved nose was still red and running, and his eyes were puffy from tears. His thin lips quivered even in his sleep.

It was nearly too much to handle.

I took a deep breath and shared a shaky smile with Carole, who was waiting by the front door. I only had to make it a few more minutes. Then I could break down, cry just as hysterically as Kurt had, for just as long. But I had responsibilities before I could let go of all restrictions. I had to put my son into bed.

My son.

Kurt looked so much like Lizzie that I didn't really believe it. And hell, it's not like I raised the kid. I hadn't seen him since he was a toddler. How was I supposed to make a claim on him as meaningful as son? He didn't know me from the guy next door. The only proof that he belonged to me was in the twenty three chromosomes he inherited and Lizzie's will.

The custody was mine. The custody that she fought so hard to obtain, the custody that she battled me for until I just gave up and gave it all to her – gave him all to her – was now mine. Just mine. I had all the papers, all the legal documents, in my back pocket. Within the paragraph of property mandated to me, there he was – a small sum of money, a few belongings that had sentimentality to us both, picture albums from high school, and our son. Kurt Elijah Hummel.

Mine.

"How was it?" Carole asked softly as I slipped past her.

"Fine." I adjusted my grip on the boy. "It went… fine."

She nodded once and peered at Kurt's face curiously. "And how is he?"

I looked down, half expecting Kurt to wake up and resume his hysterics. But he just took a deep breath and snuggled into my chest. "Fine. I'm going to put him to bed."

Carole followed us upstairs while I struggled to remember what we were going to do with the boy. We only had three bedrooms in the house, and they were all occupied. We had a vague conversation earlier that day over the phone about getting a bunk bed for the boys, but that would have to come later.

"I took out the cot," Carole whispered when we stopped in front of Finn's room. She reached up and gently brushed away some wetness from my cheeks. "We'll get him all settled in the morning. Don't worry about him. Worry about you for a minute."

I didn't say anything in response. The lump in my throat was far too big to formulate words. The springs on the cot squeaked loudly when I set Kurt on top of the generic extra sheets we had, but Finn continued to snore lightly on.

I know you have a family of your own to worry about. I see the Christmas cards you send each year. I wish I had sent some back – Kurt has a flair for being photographed anyway – but I admit it. I was afraid. Afraid you'd come and try to take him from me if you got a glimpse. It was a mistake.

Your stepson is a handsome young man and your daughter is a gorgeous little thing. I'm happy that you and your wife have managed to create something for yourselves. I hate to force an addition on your perfect little suburban Lima family. Please understand, though, that Kurt will need somewhere to live once I'm gone. I can't imagine my baby being raised by anyone but his father.

A part of me didn't always believe that Finn wasn't my child. We looked nothing alike – Finn was already destined to tower over me, and his features were predominantly Christopher Hudson's – but the boy had been mine for years. He'd been the ring bearer at the wedding. Last time Carole and I reminisced about the three year old tripping over his abnormally large feet down the aisle, she cried tears of mirth.

We were close. I coached Finn on how to throw and catch a football in their backyard. I taught him to be less self conscious about his height. I calmed him down when the Tina girl from down the block developed a crush and Finn was still afraid of cooties. I was more of a father to my stepson than the boy who actually had my eyes.

The first time Finn called me "Dad" was his first day of kindergarten. Coincidentally, that was the day that we explained to him that he would soon be a big brother. Grace was born about five months later. The happiest day of my life was a tie between her birth and the day that the two of them came racing through the living room, screaming, "Dad! Daddy!" and latching onto my leg.

Because I was somebody's dad, for God's sake.

Our family was complete. We didn't plan for more children. We were more than content with our two.

Carole went to the bedroom while I slipped into Grace's room for a second. She was curled in a little ball with her favorite pink stuffed animal, smiling at some dream. I pushed a curl out of her face and quietly backed out of the room. At least someone was sleeping soundly.

In a single day, we went from being parents of two little angels to being parents of two little angels and a troubled boy who had just lost his mother.

Okay, so I was a little biased. But I had never planned for any of this.

Then again, Lizzie never liked plans.

Kurt is a difficult one. I'm sure you remember how colicky he was as an infant – a little screamer, at all hours of the day. He's a little quieter now, so don't worry. If he gets loud, just ask him to turn down the volume. He likes to sing. His voice is beautiful, truly lovely, and – you'll like this – he adores the Beatles. Ask him to sing you some one day.

He's a bit… Oh, I don't know how to put this without being blunt. Kurt is very different from the other boys his age. I won't go into it too much. You'll learn quickly. I just beg you to keep an open mind. He'll need all the support he can get. The world is cruel. He's stubborn. Someone will have to change. I hope it's the world, and I hope it's before he gets hurt.

It took me several trips to move all of Kurt's things into the living room. I piled his boxes in a pyramid and made sure to note the labels. He had his toiletries in his backpack, which I deposited in the boys' room, but his clothes were packed in various packages. Books in another. Movies and CDs in one more. All of their photo albums, memorabilia, and home videos packed into just two small boxes.

I grabbed the last box from the passengers' seat and locked the car. It was just a shoebox, but it was heavy. I couldn't be sure if it was heavy with secrets or paper. Both, I thought.

This one was mine. She had left a note with explicit directions to hand it to me, unopened. It contained information on her son.

I swallowed thickly while I thought about that and took out the envelope clearly labeled "ONE." Her son. Kurt was her son. Who the hell did I think I was?

I trust you. I trust your wife. I trust your family to save him like nobody saved me.

I have just a few last things to say:

1) As I said before, be open minded. Love him no matter what. Kurt may not be like everyone else. Embrace it.

2) Share these with whomever you wish. They're yours now. Don't feel guilty for sharing.

3) Open these in the order they're numbered and only one each year unless I state differently. I suggest on Kurt's birthday. It'll be an easy way to remember.

4) Forgive me. For everything. Please.

Good luck, Burt. You're the only father I have ever imagined for Kurt. I know you'll live up to my expectations. I know you'll raise him to be a strong, confident, good person.

I slid under the covers, still fully clothed save my boots. Carole wrapped her arms around me, warm and comforting as I left tear stains on her nightgown.

I just hope he'll find it in his heart one day to forgive me for leaving him.

Love,

Lizzie

Note: Well, here you have it. The prologue. I hope you enjoyed this! Feedback would be really wonderful - I have some ideas of where I want to go with this story, but any input will be seriously considered. Thanks for reading! I'll try to get the next chapter up ASAP.