Dear Jackson,

I remember when you first came into our lives. I was eight years old and you pulled up to our house in your white Porsche. I remember the black window rolling down and there you were, wearing your expensive sun glasses and expensive looking business suit. You smirked at Dad and simply said, "Stilinski."

Dad spent a few seconds just staring at you, almost like you two were having a silent conversation that I wasn't allowed to listen in on. I was too busy observing you though, trying to connect all of the things I had heard about you with the person in front of me. Smirk, sun glasses, business suit, Porsche, and all. "Shut up. You're the last person I'd ever call for help," Dad finally said back; he seemed like he was mad, but thinking back I can tell that he was trying to force down a smile.

"That's bullshit and you know it," you returned, your smirk getting even bigger. I immediately perked up when I heard you say what was then a "no no" word.

"Jackson! Watch what you're saying! I don't want Dylan copying that language!" I couldn't help but want to say that Dad slipped up all of the time. But I'll be honest, I was a little scared to chime in right there. I had never seen my Dad look so happy and irritated at the same time. It was almost as if he was stripped of all the stress that came with being a single father. I didn't know all of this back then though.

"Relax Stilinski. That little guy isn't going to copy what I am saying."

"I'm not little! Other kids are just too tall!" I shouted back. It wasn't until a bit later that I found out Dad was surprised that I shouted back at you. But you on the other hand, you just stared at me from behind your expensive sun glasses before I earned myself my first Jackson Whittemore smirk.

"Fair enough kid. Now get in."

For the next few days, you drove me to school and picked me up after school while Dad's jeep was in the shop. During those days, I could tell that he seemed a little more at ease; like the stress of not having any form of transportation was not as hard for him to handle as it should have been. Thinking back now, I know that he was simply glad to have someone that he could rely on; someone that would come to help him when he needed it. I always thought that Scott was the person that Dad could call whenever he needed help. But I know now, he had his own problems to deal with, and Dad didn't want to be Scott's problem. You, on the other hand, Dad didn't seem to mind that we became your problem. I know now though, it wasn't because Dad forced us upon you, but because you wanted us to become your problem. And you were also our problem.

I didn't know all of that back then though. All I knew is that I was suddenly the kid that didn't get dropped off at school in a rundown jeep. Instead, I was the kid at school that got dropped off in a white Porsche Cayman S. And you didn't just casually roll up into the school, you made sure everyone knew that you were the one driving the Porsche while the rest of them were in little family or economy cars. You and I knew that the other parents and the school administrators hated the way you'd make a scene out of dropping me off, with the screeching tires and a revving engine. All of the other kids loved it though, thinking it was the coolest thing ever. But let's face it, it was the coolest thing ever.

After those three days ended, the days when Dad's jeep was in the shop, when you were the reason I became the talk of the school in a good way, and when Dad seemed to glow from being with you in the car, I didn't want it to end. As shallow of a reason as it is to say, I think that is when it started to hit me. That time, when it was you, and that car, and that smirk, and those sun glasses, that was the time that I decided that I wanted you to be part of us. I wish I could say that I wanted you to be part of us because of the way that you made Dad smile, or the way that you seemed to seemed to completely siphon away Dad's worries. It wasn't though. After all, I was only eight years old.

I had heard a lot of things about you, but mostly through listening in on other people's conversations. I remember the night that Dad and Scott had a fight about you. It was after I went to Grandpa's house to stay the night so that Dad could have a kid-free night. This was a little bit before I turned eight years old, and I was tired of Dad always worrying about me when I was away from him. I couldn't have told him to leave Grandpa's, after he dropped me off, any louder than I did. I love Dad, but he was a little overbearing at times.

After the night over at Grandpa's, Dad picked me up the next morning looking a way I had never seen him before. He seemed like he was up all night; there were bags under his eyes, his clothes looked like they were put on in a rush, he seemed so tired that he was about to collapse. He had this grin on his face though, which was so unusual given the fact that he seemed like he was about to pass out at any second. And when we got home, that is exactly what he did.

Then Scott came over. And that is when the fighting started. I remember hearing the name Jackson being shouted all of the time, and something about Dad being a "fucking dumb ass". Dad fought back and told Scott to lay off of him, that what he did was his business. Scott kept saying that he couldn't believe that Dad had slept with Jackson, and worst of all it seemed like Dad didn't regret it. Dad just said, "Of course I didn't regret it. I'd do it again right now if he came over."

I didn't know what all of this meant back then, but all I can say now is thank you for always making sure that I never walked in on you and Dad. And sorry for stopping anything before it started a few too many times, especially when I was a teenager. But then, then all I wondered was why Scott was so mad that Dad had a sleep over with some guy named Jackson.

By the time I had finally met you, I had all of these strange ideas of what you were like. I heard selfish, narcissistic, asshole, entitled, douche bag, retard, bully, and many other adjectives that would take me too much time to write. I asked Aunt Lydia about you once; all she did is smile at me and tell me, "Jackson Whittemore is one of the most complicated people that you'll ever meet." Aunt Allison simply told me that Scott and Dad hated you in high school.

As time went on, you become more and more of a regular occurrence in our lives. Dad would always say that he would never ask you for anything, yet you were always the first person he would call. I remember he was worried about rent once, the same week that I broke my arm because I tried to live up to the sudden cool factor that I obtained because you frequently dropped me off at school. I remember that week when Dad would sit the table, his resting his forehead in the palms of his hands, looking as if he just wanted to melt in his seat and disappear. I came up to him and asked him what was wrong. He gave me one of his forced smiles and told me that he was a little worried about the rent, but that I shouldn't worry about it. So like a good eight year old that completely trusted his only parent, I didn't. But I did mention it to you the next day you dropped me off at school. It was an off handed comment that I made because I took after Dad and always talked nonstop.

That day was one of the days where you would pick me up from school and take me back to your place while Dad was at work. I always loved those days because you would let me watch TV or play video games on your expensive 65" LCD screen with surround sound audio. Thinking back, I don't know how you managed to keep up with the workload of being a young lawyer in a law firm that had extremely high expectations for you because of who your father was. And the fact that you were only twenty five is even more amazing.

When Dad came to pick me up that night, the three of us had dinner together. You ordered take out and we sat on your expensive leather sofa and watched some random show. That is when you did it, you handed Dad a check while saying, "Here."

Dad stared at the check; frozen, speechless. You were the first person that I saw that was able to make Dad speechless so many times, and to this day you still are. Whether it is from something stupid that you say, or some act of kindness that throws him off, you are the only person that can consistently make Dad speechless. This was the second time that I had seen you do it.

"How did you know?" Dad asked quietly, with a little shame.

"Dylan told me. Take it," you answered as you pushed the check towards him.

"No!" Dad suddenly shouted before pushing your hand away. "I'm not some charity case that you just hand money to because I am worried about rent. I don't need your pity, or your money. I know you are rich, here with all of your money, gadgets, and nice condo. I know you're suddenly the coolest person in Dylan's life because he gets to ride to school in an expensive Porsche, and he gets to come here after school two days a week. I know I have a crappy job, and that I don't make as much money as you, and that I don't have the same spare cash that you do. But I'm not your charity case!"

That was the first time I ever saw Dad go off on you, though now that I think about it, it was more rambling than anything else. You had this look on your face, one that I wasn't able to read then, and one I can't remember enough now to try and decipher. But what you said next stuck with me forever. "Stiles. You're not my charity case. You're mine. So shut up and take this money because I actually give at rat's ass about what happens to the both of you."

Dad was immediately defeated, I could tell. He looked like he was about to overflow with emotions. All I could think about though was the fact that you said rat's ass. What Dad did next though, made me want to throw up. He kissed you, right in front of me, with a soft whisper, "Thank you."

Of course, in standard eight year old fashion, I immediately cringed with a very loud, "ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww." That was the first time Dad ever told me to shut up.

Life as a family of three was, different. At least different compared to what I was used to. As time went on, you shifted from being just Jackson, the cool guy, to Jackson, my second dad. I know Dad always disliked that fact that I called you Jackson, even long after you had proven yourself to be just as great of a parent as any of those "Father's of the Year" out there. Yet, you never seemed to mind that I called you by your first name. I asked you about it once, when I was in my teen years. All you said was that Atticus Finch was called Atticus by his children, and if you were half of the lawyer that he was, you didn't mind. I still remember when Dad bought me a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, hoping that it would be a way for us to connect more since that was your favorite book and movie.

He didn't know though that we already connected in many ways. When I got drunk for the first time, at age fifteen, I remember ranting to my lacrosse team mates about how much I hated having "fags" for parents. I know now that it was just because I wanted to come from a normal family. By that time, the three of us had already moved into a new house together, and we had even gotten a dog. Dad and I loved the dog. You, not so much. But when I was fifteen, I felt like that dog was the only thing that seemed to be normal about my life.

When I got drunk that first time, I bitched about having two fathers for hours on end. I am not even sure what I said to my team mates other than I hated it. I remember saying that I hated Dad because he somehow messed things up with my bio-mom. I blamed the fact that she ditched me when I wasn't even a year old on him. So that night, once I was the drunk mess of a fifteen year old that I was, the cops found my team mates and I on top of the hill that overlooked the town. I hid in the bushes while my friends were driven away in the back seats of the cop cars, left alone there on top of the hill. I didn't know what to do, or why I hid, I just did though. I knew that I didn't want Dad to find out that I was drinking, especially since he always complained about your drinking. I knew that he hated the fact that you would always pour a glass of scotch or whiskey after work each night. He would get frustrated and turn away while you would drink a few glasses. Dad told me a couple of times that you weren't perfect, but that he loved you nonetheless. But if there was one thing that Dad would kill me for if he ever caught me doing, it was drinking like you did. Which is exactly what happened that night.

I called you. Not Dad, or Scott, or Grandpa, or my friends. It was you. And you came. You had a new Porsche then, a black one, but you drove up the hill and found me slumped against a tree. When you got out of the car, you threw me a bottle of water and sat down next to me. We sat there in silence for what seemed like forever. You didn't mind it, but I sat there hazy and on edge. I thought you were going to yell at me, ground me, tell me I couldn't play lacrosse anymore, rat me out to Dad, and a whole bunch of other things. But instead, you said, "I used to come up here to drink all of the time, when I was your age."

I didn't know what to say to that. Part of me wanted to ask why, but another part of me just wanted to tell you to take me home. I saw you smirk before you continued, "I was fourteen when I started drinking. Used to come up here all of the time to drink by myself. My best friend Danny would have to come pick up my drunk ass. Your dad did too once or twice. But that was only because Lydia asked him to."

"You going to tell him?" I asked.

You looked at me with what seemed like guilt. I didn't understand it then, but I do now. "No. Now let's go home. I'm freezing out here."

That was the end of that, that night. But that wouldn't be the end of my drunk escapades when I was in high school. I was never sure if you told Dad about me drinking, but what I was sure of was the fact that I could count on you to pick me up whenever I needed you to. You would never chastise me. All you would do is give me that look of guilt. I used to hate that look, but I always ignored it.

I became the high school lacrosse team captain, just like you were in high school. Expectations for me were high, especially from all of the parents and staff that had been around to see you play. I hated being compared to you all of the time. Thankfully, you didn't seem to care too much about your former glory days, and Dad always made it a point to say how he was just a bench warmer. He would always cheer the loudest at the lacrosse games. And he was there at every game. But you, you weren't. I hated the fact that you weren't. I hated the fact that you didn't give me a chance to prove myself to you in this sport that we had in common.

Dad always said that if there was one thing about you that I needed to know, it was that for every one thing there was to love about you, there was one thing to hate about you. It was during high school that I finally experienced that phenomenon for myself for the first time. You knew this about yourself though. Yet you just seemed to go along with it and didn't seem to care to change. But when I would bitch about you to my friends, they would all tell me to shut up and would remind me how lucky I was to have a parent that would pick me up whenever I was too much of a dumbass to get home on my own. All I could focus on was how you were no Atticus Finch.

My graduation from high school was a grand affair. You paid for a trip for my friends and I to go to Europe for the summer. Dad protested, but you somehow convinced him and the other parents to let this trip happen. I was so excited for my trip, but for the wrong reasons. All I could look forward to was spending two weeks overseas, away from you and Dad, with my best friends. By this point, I had already become more responsible when it came to my drinking; well, as responsible as an under aged drinker could be.

When I got back from my trip and moved away to college, that is when I started to form perspective. You and Dad wanted me to have the true college experience. You didn't get to have it because of all the pressure from your family and yourself to pass the bar at a young age. You were able to, but I know now that that pressure only further perpetuated your reliance on alcohol. Dad, on the other hand, he was too busy raising me so he missed out on the college experience as well.

But me, I had it all. I had the premium dorm, the car, the fraternity, the friends, the girls, and the money. I partied like the best of them, and the worst of them. It is a wonder that I was able to graduate with a degree in criminal justice at all.

When I met Stacey, I thought I knew how to date girls. After all, I had dated many of them, and slept with many more. But she was different. She was older, she was demanding, and I was like a moth attracted to a light. I remember asking you and Dad for girl advice. Both of you kind of laughed. After all, Dad had shit luck and experience when it came to girls, and you only dated females while in high school. I was looking for some sort of sage advice, but I didn't get that from you. What you said to me was, "Try as hard as you can to move past whatever flaws you think you have that may give you the idea that you're unworthy. You'll find something. I sure as hell did when it came to your dad."

That night, I heard a side of you that I had never knew existed. I always saw you as this extremely confident man that knew how great you were for Dad. But what I learned that night was how much you wanted to be great for Dad, even though you were convinced that he could do better. I didn't believe it, but I didn't tell you that. I wish I did though. I was just too focused on trying to relate your story to what was going on in my life.

Eventually, I won over Stacey, and then she dumped me. You and Dad were there for the break up, and that, along with everything else in college, was when I got over my hateful teenager phase.

I graduated with my degree in criminal justice with honors. I credit my success to you and Dad, and how great of parents you were. I know it wasn't easy to step in and become a parent to a kid that wasn't even yours. I know I wasn't the easiest kid in the world to handle, nor was I the most sensitive to you and your problems. You and Dad still fought a lot, which would incur the wrath of Scott. He blamed you for all of my partying ways in college after I accidentally drunk dialed him one night. The call was honestly meant for Stacey.

I started to hate him when it happened. He kept bringing up your alcoholism, even though Dad and I were struggling to cope. I know that he felt guilty about saying all of the stuff he did. I know he didn't mean it to sound as vicious as it did, but I couldn't help but want to punch him. I wanted to unleash my rage on him; make him feel just an ounce of the emotions I was feeling. But I didn't. I just started calling him Scott instead of Uncle Scott.

It's been six months since you flipped your car on the freeway. You and Dad had gotten into a fight. I guess Dad stormed out of the house, and you drank away your emotions. But for some reason, that night, you decided to try and go find Dad instead of waiting for him to get home like you always did. So you drove, looking for him, your drunk mind forgetting that he was most likely at Scott's or Aunt Lydia's. You flipped your car on the freeway.

You didn't die though. You just went to sleep, and you haven't woken up since. Dad visits every day now. I try to come as often as I can. I'll be honest, it's hard for me to come sometimes. I wonder, if I had been a better son to you, if I had been more sensitive to your problems, if I hadn't hated you the way I did, would you be awake right now? You kept my secret, but my drunk dial after I graduated to Scott lead to Dad finding out what you did for me. He found out about all of those times you would pick up my drunk ass in the middle of the night. I don't know for sure, but I think that is why you and Dad were fighting that night. Dad blames himself for your accident, but I can't help but feel that it is my fault.

I know you felt guilty every time you picked me up. You felt like it was your fault that I drank as much as I did. You hated yourself for being such a bad example of how to cope with life. Yet you were an alcoholic, and we were too busy looking the other way. I just want you to know, that it isn't your fault. I drank in high school not because of you, but because of the fact that I was a dumb teenager. The only fault that can be placed here is on us. You came into our lives and saved us. And in some ways, we probably saved you too. But, still, I can't help but wonder if there was more that we could have done.

I met a girl recently. Her name is Ashley. I think that you would like her. Dad sure does, and we both talk about you a lot. We even brought her during one of our visits once. Dad made a joke about how irritating it was that you were still so good looking even when you're lying there sleeping. Ashley agreed. Dad did his best not to make the visit awkward, but after some time I could tell that the reality of the situation was hitting him again. We left Dad with you, and I cried in the car in front of Ashley.

Dad and I never discuss cutting off the life support. I know he won't do it, and I never bring it up because I am not sure I could either. I remember what you told me once. You said that if anything were to happen to you, that we should keep you around on life support for as long as we need you to be alive. For as long as we need you there.

I haven't given up hope though. I write this letter so that I can read it to you when I am ready, and one day you'll be able to read it yourself. I don't think I'll ever be able to say how sorry I am that I didn't pay attention, even when I was old enough to.

But, I also have to say Thank You. Thank you for being in my life the way you have been. Thank you for being the cool guy with the Porsche that would drive me to school. Thank you for being the guy that gave me the confidence to play and excel at lacrosse. Thank you for always being there to pick me up and burdening my secret. Thank you for being the victim to my teenage hate. Thank you for always being there when I needed you to. Thank you for giving me all of the privileges that I have had in my life. And thank you, for still being here for me, even while you lay there sleeping.

I know it pisses Dad off that I call you Jackson. I am not sure why I do it, why I never started calling you Dad as well. Or Father. Or something other than Jackson. I know that you were okay with it, or at least that is what you told me, because Jem and Scout called their dad by his real name. I can't help but wonder though, if I had called you Dad, would you have felt that you didn't need to drink? If I had given you that, would you still be lying there sleeping? Did you turn to alcohol because you felt like I never truly accepted you as a parent? I don't tell Dad these questions because I know he will tell me that they are ridiculous, that you knew exactly how I felt about you. I think he just doesn't want me to blame myself just as much as he blames himself.

I just want you to know though, that to me, you always have been, and always will be, my dad. I love you Dad. Please wake up so that I can actually say that to you in person.

Love,

Dylan Stilinski-Whittemore