2031

"Seriously?" Sean groaned when his phone rang on his nightstand at precisely 3:14 in the morning. "What the…"

"Who is it?" his wife asked.

Sean squinted to read the caller ID. "It's Jack." Suddenly wide awake, he answered. "Jack, what's going on?" he asked, sitting up. "Coffee? Now? It's three in the morning…Okay, okay, fine. Sure. I'll meet you there in twenty."

"What's going on?" Miranda asked, watching as Sean rolled out of bed and stepped into yesterday's jeans.

"I dunno. Says he really wants to talk and it can't wait. Sounded happy, though."

"Okay, well, tell him I said hi. Check in on the girls on your way out. Make sure Katie didn't sneak out her window again."

"Will do." Sean stretched across the bed and left a kiss on Miranda's lips. "See you in a bit."

—

"Well, what is it?" Sean asked once he'd ordered himself a coffee, plus an omelet and biscuits and gravy for good measure.

Jack, now a proud member of the quarter-century club, was all smiles as their tired waitress splashed some black coffee into their cups. "I asked," he finally sputtered.

"Asked what?" Sean said with as much patience as was warranted by being woken up at such an ungodly hour.

"I…asked her to marry me. Maddie. I asked. She said yes."

Sean nearly spit out his coffee. "Jack, that's—that's great. I didn't even know you were planning on it. When did you decide?"

Jack shrugged and melted into his cracked vinyl seat. "I've been thinking about it for a while. I started saving for a ring a couple weeks ago but I didn't wanna say anything and jinx it, I guess. And tonight was our third anniversary and I figured…why not now? If she won't say yes without a ring, then she's not the girl for me."

Sean chuckled. "While your logic seems sound and you made it through this time, I wouldn't recommend skipping the jewelry anymore. It's your friend."

"I'll keep that in mind." Jack sipped his coffee and tapped his fingers nervously on his mug.

"Say," Sean said. "Why are you with me right now? Does Maddie know you left in the middle of the night?"

"Yeah. I couldn't sleep. I just…had to tell someone. And I guess it had to be you."

"Well, I'm tickled. Listen…there's something I, uh…need to give to you. Now that you're engaged."

"What, is their a family heirloom ring I didn't know about?"

"No," Sean said, grinning. "It's an envelope. Anyway, it's in my safe deposit box at the bank. I'll pick it up for you."

"Who's it from?"

"Oh, right. It's from Emily," Sean said, glad his throat didn't choose now to choke on his words. Sometimes he still thought back on that tragic year in his life and had to hide away in the den with a couple of beers and ask his wife and two teenage daughters to give him a while alone. It had been eighteen years and sometimes it still hurt just like it had only happened yesterday. "In the event that she died, she left it for me to give to you when you got engaged. I'm guessing it's a letter like your dad left for you. It was sitting by her bed when we went in her room after…you know. "

"Oh," Jack said, barely audibly. "I honestly never know what to say when you bring her up…"

"I know it's awkward. You were so young when this all happened. I know it's…hard for you to remember your parents, so you don't want to remember Emily better. I get it. But Jack…she loved you like her own son. She just had a hard time coping. If she was still around, you'd know that."

"And it was all my fault, yeah, I remember," Jack said, sitting up straight and fiddling with a creamer cup.

"How many times do we have to have this talk?" Sean said, letting a heavy sigh loose. "It wasn't anyone's fault. She told me she knew she could've stayed in DC if she really wanted to. But she didn't really want to. She wanted to live close to you. But that doesn't mean it's your fault."

Jack licked his lips and ran his long fingers through the thick brown hair his father had left him. He was just as tall, too. "I know she and my dad meant a lot to you…and when I was little I know they did to me, too. But it's…hard to talk about them when I don't remember much. I feel guilty."

Sean shook his head and held his hands up in surrender. "Don't feel guilty. I never meant for you to feel that way. Exactly the opposite."

Jack nodded, not seeming all that convinced.

"Let's talk about the proposal. Tell me all about it."

—

One week later, Sean was picking up the dirty dishes from the patio after a small engagement party he and his wife had thrown for Jack and Maddie. The happy couple were about to leave when Jack joined him outside, pulling a wrinkled white envelope from his suit jacket pocket.

"Hey," Sean said with a smirk.

"Thanks for the party," Jack said. "We really appreciated it. Food was awesome."

"My pleasure. Whatcha got there?"

"The envelope. From Emily. It was a letter. And some pictures I'm sure you've already seen. Anyway, I thought maybe you'd wanna read it."

Sean set down the dishes he'd collected and tossed a hand towel over his shoulder. "I appreciate the sentiment, but that's yours."

Jack shook his head. "I want you to read it. You said she didn't leave you anything."

"We said everything we needed to say before she died," Sean said. "I didn't need a letter."

Jack set the envelope down on the glass table. "Just read it. But maybe alone. Maddie made fun of me when she found me crying," he said with a slight eye roll.

"Great," Sean said sarcastically. "Now get out of my house."

Jack laughed. "I am."

"Fine, get off my patio. Go."

Jack shoved his hands in his pockets. "Thanks, Uncle Sean."

"You already thanked me. Maddie's waiting for you. She's got her arms crossed."

"I didn't mean thanks for the party."

"Then what?"

"I dunno, just…thanks. And I love you."

Sean looked dumbfounded to say the least. "I love you too, kid."

Jack nodded solemnly and left Sean to himself under the starlight.

"Is Jack okay?" Jessica asked, stepping out onto the patio a few minutes later. "He looked sad."

Sean was straddling a chair and flipping the envelope over and over and over in his hands. "He's fine."

"You?"

Sean paid Jessica the visual attention she demanded. "Fine."

"Okay," Jessica said timidly, ducking back inside.

Over the years, Sean had moved on for the most part. He'd married the only woman who seemed to understand his pain. He'd had the kids he'd begun to think he'd never have. He'd continued being the best uncle he could be given the time constraints.

But things with Jessica had never really been resolved. He'd gotten better at hiding his disdain for her, for what he felt she'd done to Emily, but he'd never let it go.

"Waiting on those dishes, sweetie," Miranda said, sliding the door open only a couple of inches.

Sean set the envelope down for later. "Be right there."

—

With a bottle of beer and a chorus of crickets to keep him companion the patio, Sean finally found the privacy and the bravery to slip the letter out of its envelope later that night. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a handwritten letter. That in and of itself was something to smile about. The brittle paper crinkled when he opened it.

But the happiness ended there.

Dear Jack,

I'm not exactly at my best with words right now. The last couple of weeks have been a roller coaster, and as you know, there's a tumor of some sort in my brain. So forgive me if any of this sounds a bit silly.

You might be wondering why I'm writing to you. You're only seven, going on eight, at this moment. By the time you read this, you'll be somewhere in your twenties or thirties, most likely. You'll have forgotten most everything about me, and a lot of things about your parents, too, unfortunately. This letter, in part, may help remind you not only of some good memories that might be no longer, but also of how much your father loved you. How much I loved you.

Let me start at the beginning. The beginning of what I know, anyway. That would be when I met your father. It was my first day at a new job—at least, it was supposed to be. After your father took a few minutes to figure out why on earth I was in his office, he brushed me off and told me some paperwork must have gotten messed up. We didn't have the greatest start.

But over the years, I grew to trust him, and he me. Not long before your mother's passing, your father was in a very dark place. I did my best to make sure he knew he wasn't alone, tried not to let him beat himself up too much. After your mother died, he told me he wrote you a letter about what had happened and about their marriage, lest anything should happen to him. Though not many people in our positions had ever died on the job, he wanted to ensure that you didn't grow up without knowing your parents' story. And I'm pretty sure he left you some letters he wrote (without telling me) shortly before he died. So I'll spare you the details there. I'm sure you've read those words by now and probably know them by heart. The purpose of this letter is to walk you through things from a different point of view. If your father did write anything for you right before he died, I don't know what it was, but it probably wasn't this, as these thoughts are my own.

I'll move on to when your father was diagnosed a couple of years later. He came back to work the next day and told us all one by one in his office. He saved me for last. I had no idea what to think, besides the fact that I would be losing the man with whom I might be meant to spend the rest of my life. What made that pain worse was my suspicion that he might have felt the same way. Certain rules and regulations had always kept me from pursuing anything with him, though, so I'd long ago kind of given up hope on that front.

Sorry if this is turning a little sappy, but it's all important. I promise.

I had to travel with your father for work the day after he told everyone. Our task was to interview an inmate on death row in order to get inside of her head and understand why she'd done what she'd done. She was only interested in making a point about legacies, though. Your father was frustrated that she wouldn't talk to us like she'd promised, and he thought that the trip was a waste, but it still got him thinking about what he wanted to do with the few months that he had left. He'd already retired from the Bureau and would be leaving when his treatments started, all so he could spend more time with you, but there were other things on his mind.

Those things finally came to be about a month later, after many nights where I'd stop by for dinner or dessert and you'd make us play Uno for at least an hour per sitting. For the record, I was always more than happy to play.

Once your father and I became involved, we quickly realized that our relationship would have a bigger impact on you than expected. You and I had already grown quite close and quite fond of each other, and once we told you we were seeing each other, things got even more real. When we decided to get married only three weeks after our first date (by the way, your father was an exemplary gentleman and really knew how to impress a woman), we almost didn't tell you. In fact, we still hadn't decided to break the news to you. You found out by mistake when you heard your father arguing with me on the phone. A side note about that: in our four months of marriage, that was one of the very few arguments we ever had.

Once you knew we were married, your father and I started to run damage control. We were afraid of what his passing would do to you if you looked to me as more of a mother figure than you already did. I was living with you two, helping out around the house, and you knew I was romantically involved with your father. The last thing we wanted was for you to lose another important person in your life when your father eventually passed away. A stepmom.

Thankfully, you weren't attached to the idea of calling me anything but Emily, and you understood that once your father passed away, things with me would be different. I would still see you, but not as often. You were an absolute trooper. Not only did you handle everything more maturely than we ever could have hoped, but you kept us both smiling every day. You didn't yet understand the permanence of death, so you weren't as devastated on a daily basis as we were.

Maybe you remember it vividly, maybe you don't, but the three of us took a trip to the beach for a few days. The happiest I saw your father in the last months of his life was when he was able to pick you up in the ocean. He was very weak by then and couldn't eat much, but I truly believe that being able to pick you up again gave him the fuel he needed to push through the last few months.

After that, the downhill slope got steeper. Your father kept the chemo going in hopes that it would buy him more time, and he didn't give in until he felt it was doing more harm than good. After he made the decision to stop his treatment, your uncle moved in with us.

Let me tell you a little bit about your uncle. He and your father weren't all that close before your father found out he was sick. But they wasted no time in getting to know each other again, and that wouldn't have happened if your uncle hadn't insisted on showing up at a moment's notice for the especially hard times. He was eager to be there not only for his big brother, but for you, too. He wanted to get to know you so that he could be a part of your life after the inevitable. He was a blessing and a joy. He decided to shave his head one morning, soon after your father stopped his chemo, and you wanted to copy him. I think it was then that I knew you would be just fine.

Your father's last few weeks were, of course, the hardest. I don't know that I would have made it through them with half the grace that I did if it weren't for your uncle. He was going through his own hell, but he always found the time and energy to be there for everyone else. For you, your father, and me.

The day finally came and went. It was really all a blur. Some days I think back on it and can hardly remember any of it. Over the entire span of our relationship, the things that have stuck with me most over the next year (things that I think you'd find valuable, anyway) are the following:

Number one: Your father was the only man I ever truly loved, though there had been a few more before him about whom I thought I'd felt the same way. Whatever you might think about me—maybe you've grown up assuming I was just some strange lady who lived with you for a while, someone you hardly remember, someone who was crazy and married your father when he was dying—please know this: the five months I got to call your father mine, and the four I wore a ring proclaiming it, were the hardest of my life, but also the best.

Number two: Your father was the most loving and honorable man I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. If you take away anything at all from this rambling letter, let it be that the ability to love so fiercely didn't end with your father. It runs thick in your blood. That's why I'm leaving you this letter for when you decide to get married. I know you will take that step someday, and by that time, you'll be emotionally mature enough to read this letter and not scrunch your nose up at all the flowery allusions to your father's and my romance. By the time you ask some very lucky woman to spend the rest of her life with you, you'll be on the path to understanding just how important another person can be to you. And then you'll probably be wondering how you keep her as happy as the day you popped the question. The answer has a few parts. First, tell her you love her. Multiple times a day. As long as you treat her right, those words will never lose meaning. Second, always ask her how she's feeling. Even though you might think it's obvious, you could be wrong. And even if you're right, she'll always appreciate the fact that you care. And third, don't hide behind gifts of jewelry and flowers. As much as your uncle probably jokes that diamond's are not only a girl's best friend but a guy's best friend, too, they mean absolutely nothing if every day doesn't have at least one minute that feels as magical as the day you said "I do."

And the third thing I still remember: Life is short. Sure, it sounds cliché, but I hope you can take my word for it. I watched your father slip away all too young, and now I'm doing the same. I have this strange feeling that the surgery won't go well, so I'm writing this letter as a precaution. Even if I do come out of the surgery alive, I don't think I'll have as much time as your father did, which wasn't much time at all. But I digress. Jack, you probably won't know that the last words to your loved ones will be your last until it's too late. Not everyone gets the time to sit down and make amends, to formulate the write things to say, to take pen to paper and leave someone a letter. So when you think your wife looks particularly beautiful, tell her. When your kids (please do have some) come to you afraid of the boogeyman, hold them. When they make you so happy you could burst, tell them how lucky you think you are to have them in your life. You just never know. I know it sounds morbid to think about death all the time, but really, if you do these things, then death won't be nearly as scary.

Death is only truly scary when you've left things undone, when the people you love don't know just how much you live only for them, or when you feel like you've wasted time. I think that if you follow my advice and do the things I didn't really do, you won't have to be on constant watch, wondering if you're ready to go.

Finally, I want to tell you a little bit about the last year of my life. As I write this letter, one of my greatest fears is that you'll blame yourself for what I went through. But please, don't ever think that.

Yes, it's true that I moved to Philadelphia and bought a house right around the corner from yours so I could see you as much as possible. In doing so, I left behind friends, family, and a job I enjoyed, thereby risking my ability to recover from your father's death, which at the time was still very recent. But that doesn't mean you're at all to blame. Even though the last year of my life has involved a lot more loss, I would still follow you to Philly again in a heartbeat. I love you more than you'll ever fathom until you hold your very first little one. Yes, the kind of love I feel for you is a bit different in nature since I didn't have the honor of creating you, but my love does not differ at all in magnitude. Although you may feel angry with your aunt for moving you so soon after your father's death—especially if you talk to your uncle when he's had a few drinks in him—know that I don't blame her. Children don't come with instruction manuals. Sometimes all we can do is follow our hearts, and that's what your aunt did. I refuse to believe her act was spiteful, because believing the worst about someone won't solve my problems. Your aunt cherishes you, as she should. After all, you're all she has. Hopefully someday that changes, but for now, you're her main man.

It's getting late. I just returned from your Uncle Dave's house, where I stayed a little too late to shave my head (why not?) and spend some time with my friends. My surgery is in the morning, and like I said, I'm not so sure I'll make it through. If I do, and if I somehow beat whatever disease I might have, then you'll never have to read this letter. I'll tell you its contents over the years. I'll battle my broken heart, too, and I'll live to demonstrate all of these lessons to you. But I really do think this is my last chance to put something down in writing. And as I said, I'm getting tired, so I'll try to wrap it up.

I'll never forget the endless nights of Uno, all the bedtime stories, and all the soccer games. I like to think I'll end up in Heaven and I'll be with your father again, but whatever comes to pass, know that I've been looking over you all these years, and so has he. I love you with every little bit that's left of me.

Love,

Emily

P.S. Just in case your uncle rubbed off on you a little and turned you into a potentially perpetual bachelor because you're too busy giving to others to know how to live for yourself, I did ask for this letter to be given to you by age thirty if you were not yet betrothed by that time. If you're only reading this letter because you're thirty and there's no special girl in your life right now, don't fret. You haven't disappointed me. But I think this advice would still be useful with other loved ones in your life. It's not only a girlfriend, fiancée, wife, or child that needs to know how much you love them. Don't forget about your aunt and uncle.

P.P.S. It's three in the morning. Understandably, I can't sleep. I keep thinking of all these things I should have said to you. Like how funny your father was, even though everyone else thought his only emotion was grouchy. And how your uncle is hilarious but in a completely different way. And how I hope you still have that nativity set your dad left for you.

P.P.P.S. Okay, I promise, this is it. It's time to leave for the hospital now, so this is my last chance. Please have your uncle read this letter. I didn't touch on it already, but I just realized that there's probably been no one around all these years to tell you what a godsend he was. He certainly won't go saying it about himself. I'll try to talk to him before the surgery this morning, but just in case I can't get the words right, I hope he reads this and knows that I love him for that. All three of you Hotchners were my heroes in some way. Thank you for everything, Jack. If you're anything like your father, you'll feel wrongly indebted to me. But if you have to do something to make yourself feel better, do this: love someone until it hurts. Then you'll know you've lived.

Sean saw a droplet fall on the letter and panicked, thinking it had begun to rain. But a moment later he realized his cheeks were soaked with shameless tears. He wanted to read the letter again, in a way, but in another way he wasn't sure his heart could handle it. Reading it had been almost as hard as giving Emily his blessing to give up—telling her he'd understood why she'd wanted to die. He was at least glad she hadn't said as much in the letter.

"Honey?" Miranda said sweetly, timidly. She lingered at the back door. "What's the matter?"

Sean gave a hearty sniffle and shook his head. "Just a letter Emily left for Jack. He gave it to me to read."

"Oh." Miranda came all the way outside and took the chair next to Sean. He was blessed in that she had never questioned his devotion to Emily, never made it into something it wasn't, had never been jealous. "Was it good sad or bad sad?"

Sean shrugged his shaking shoulders and opened up his arms. He breathed in the end-of-day scent of his wife's hair and kissed her temple. "Do I tell you I love you enough?"

"Of course," she cooed, coming her finger through the hair she let him grow as long as he wanted. "Most days, anyway."

"I don't think I said it at all today," Sean said as he drew back and took in her worried countenance.

"But I know it."

Sean shook his head. "That's not enough. I love you. You're my best friend. I couldn't live without you or the girls. Let's…go away for a weekend, all four of us."

Miranda smiled in confusion and kissed her husband on the forehead. "You know the girls aren't gonna want to go on a family vacation. They're getting too old to get into that kind of stuff."

"Whatever they have going on isn't as important as their family," Sean insisted. "We haven't seen enough of each other lately."

"You're worrying me, Sean. It's like the Christmas ghosts paid you a visit and you feel like you have all this stuff to make up for. You're the best husband I could ever hope for. And a perfect father. Cut yourself a break."

Sean guided Miranda to sit sideways in his lap, then set his chin on her shoulder. "I'm never gonna cut myself a break again. Can you do me a favor?"

"Of course. Anything that'll get me my husband back," Miranda said playfully, placing a kiss on his lips.

"Next time you wanna throw my clothes out the window, remind me of this letter."

"Okay, but can I still throw your clothes out the window if I want to?" she teased.

Sean finally yielded to her attempts to get him to smile. "By all means. Say, do you think we should invite Jess and Danny, too?"

Miranda raised one well-manicured eyebrow. "You want to invite Jessica on a family vacation? Okay, no more Kool-Aid."

"Okay, maybe that's a little much. But I think I need to have a talk with her."

Miranda got up and held out a hand. "I think that would be good for both of you. But for now, let's go to bed. It's getting late."

A/N: Reviews are love. And you're right, this universe apparently never ends.