A/N: This is a slightly depressing oneshot that somehow turned into a Mother's Day thing. It does have past character death, but I had to get it out of my head. It is AU, and the only back story you need it that Alfred was in the military and Ivan and he were married. Enjoy.

Edit: Fixed minor typos and one big grammar mistake. I would love to see fanart for this thing, I don't trust myself to do it on my own. XD

I don't know if I ever truly understood how much I was loved until Alfred was gone. I remember many things about him, like his hair color, his gorgeous sapphire eyes. His scent of light, because that's all I could name how he smelled. His voice, generally quite loud and obnoxious, but when we were alone he would be soft and gentle when he spoke.

There's other things I don't remember, though. I can't remember the touch of his skin anymore, or exactly how soft his hair was. I no longer recall precisely how he looked when he cooked dinner for us.

Thirty years have flown by since he passed, and now I struggle to do a great deal of things. When I visit him, I take my time bending to greet him. My face is old, drawn, my hair is no longer an ashy blond. Still, I do not regret my age. I only regret that Alfred does not get to grow old with me, but then I know that perpetual youth suits him. Our son, Sascha, is now nearing his fortieth birthday. He has two sons and a daughter, and they remind me so much of Alfred that I can't help but spoil them. Though both of Sascha's sons have Alfred's golden hair and sapphire eyes, only his daughter, Amelia, has Alfred's little cowlick. it looks funny on a girl, but of the three she reminds me of him the most. Though she looks much more like me, with her beautiful violet eyes and her ash-colored hair, her personality is like Alfred returned. I've spoiled all three rotten, but I've made a point of giving her gifts Alfred would have loved. For her last birthday, her sixteenth, I gave her a book on American history. It even had a chapter where Alfred was mentioned, and she told me that one was her favorite.

His sacrifice made it into the history books, but the fact that he died saving the entire country means nothing to me. I know that I'll never again see him smile except from old photographs, never hear his voice without the aid of our old home movies. In fact, the way my health has been declining, I may need more than a movie to hear him talk. I'm finding it difficult to hear things clearly, and I only hope I don't lose my hearing completely.

I wear glasses now, bifocals that look identical to Alfred's. Sometimes I wake up and imagine that Alfred put his glasses on my side of our bed before I remember that he's not there and never will be again.

I'm taking him flowers today, six sunflowers and six roses from our garden. I'm going to bring him a hamburger, too. I still have no like for the things, but he loved them with a passion. Perhaps he'd like a soda as well. Sascha is coming with me. It's Mother's Day, after all. I love my son, for all his flaws, his temper, every imperfection. He somehow managed to get past losing Alfred and become the brave, strong, heroic man Alfred and I wanted him to be. He tells me that he's bringing Alfred a painting he made, one of those handmade pieces of art he would always give Alfred on Mother's Day. He gives me works from his own two hands every Father's Day as well, but the pieces he leaves Alfred are always something special.

Even if Alfred wasn't his birth mother, Sascha knows no different. Somehow, he still had Alfred's blond hair, though it was my seed that gave him life. And his children have gained Alfred's traits, despite never knowing him.

When Sascha arrives, I leave my armchair and grab my cane, my knees protesting a little as I pick up the flowers. They're wrapped with a star-spangled red, white and blue paper, and tied together with a ribbon of gold. I shuffle to the door and get into Sascha's car, where I see the telltale McDonald's bag in the backseat. Sascha remembered to get hamburgers for his mother.

"You remembered his hamburgers."

Sascha smiled at me, and, as always, my heart swelled at the sight. His smile was identical to Alfred's own.

"Of course, Otets. Matushka would be horrified if I didn't remember his hamburgers."

"That he would, Sascha." I smiled at my son. He was not simply the boy I fathered by surrogate, nor the child Alfred called his son. He was the product of our love and caring, a combination of personalities which meshed into his own original being. He was not my son, he was our son. The rest of the world was free to say he was not Alfred's flesh and blood, and they would be right, but if anyone said it in my hearing they would find themselves swiftly corrected.

Sascha didn't have to be born of Alfred for Alfred to be his mother.

When we arrived at the cemetery, Sascha helped me from the car. I regretted my reckless youth, for perhaps my body would be in better shape had I been more careful when I was young. I still wear the scarf my sister Yekaterina gave me, though it's faded and leaning towards threadbare, just like me. No one wants to see an old man with scars all over his skin. No one except his dead husband, that is. I always take my scarf off when I visit Alfred. He loved to touch my neck and shoulders, trace each old injury like a precious gift. I could never figure out why he loved them so much, but then, what is love?

I removed my scarf and knelt slowly in front of his marble headstone, the carved eagle glaring out at any who dared dispute Alfred's claim as the 'most American man of all time'. His self-proclaimed title always rang in my ears when I saw the eagle carved so painstakingly into the stone. I laid the flowers down, looked at Sascha, and began to speak to Alfred in Russian. He loved my language, though he didn't say so in public. I knew from the way he always shivered with pleasure when I spoke it that he loved it.

"Alik, I'm back again. It's May now, and your roses are blooming, da. We have some big ones this year, and they smell heavenly. I picked some for you today." I looked at the six roses laid at the foot of the stone. "I also cut some sunflowers for you. I brought Sascha with me, Alik. He misses you still, and i wish you could see our grandchildren. They're so like you, especially Amelia."

Sascha bent beside me and placed the bag of McDonalds down next to the flowers. "Matushka, I brought you a hamburger and french fries. They have been altered a bit in the last year, but only so that they are much healthier." It was true-government sanctions had forced the McDonalds Corporation to add fresh ingredients and cut more than half the grease and fat from their food. "Otets and I are doing pretty good. Amelia, Franklin and Nikolai are getting huge. I decided that this year, I would bring you a painting I made of them for you." Our son uncovered a painting of our grandchildren, laughing in the sunlight. It was perfect, Sascha's talent immeasurable.

"Sascha, that's amazing!" I exclaimed. It captured the children perfectly. Twelve-year old Franklin was the hyperactive one. With his golden hair and blue eyes, he was almost a carbon copy of Alfred, a huge, elated smile on his face as he leaped for a butterfly. Though he had no cowlick, his hair was styled like Alfred's. Quiet, reserved seven-year-old Nikolai, Sascha's youngest, was pictured on a large rock on the edge of the painting. His hair, too, shone golden in the sunlight, and his eyes, that strange mix of purple and blue, stared through a pair of square-rimmed glasses into the distance. A gentle smile, full of a strange amount of wisdom too adult to properly fit his face, gave the boy a sense of perpetual longing, though for what, one couldn't tell. The open book on his lap was proof of his precocity.

Finally, there was bright-eyed Amelia, the eldest of the three at sixteen. Her ash-blonde hair was cropped to just barely brush past her chin, the one defiant cowlick sticking straight up from the part in her hair. Her violet eyes sparkled like jewels. She was clad in red, white and blue, her color combo of choice. She was on her knees in the dirt, attention focused on a fuzzy baby bird, a bright yellow duckling, as it ate something from her hand. The mother duck could be seen just entering the picture. Amelia was smiling beatifically, like her brother Franklin, but her smile was filled with more than her brother's boundless joy. It was courageous, brave, and above all kind. She had a scarf that I knitted her on her neck, her physical resemblance to me accentuated.

The painting was the most beautiful, perfect thing for Alfred.

I smiled and laid my hand on the headstone. Alfred "Freedom" Jones-Braginsky. Mother of Sascha, husband of Ivan. Taken from us too soon, in defense of America, he will never be forgotten.

"Schastlivyĭ Denʹ materi , lyubovʹ moya."

A/N: Well, there's Mother's Day for you. I'd always wondered what it would be like for Ivan if Alfred died. Here, the idea is that Alfred died protecting America from invasion. It was hard to write. Thank you for reading.

Translation

Otets-Father

Matushka-Mother

Schastlivyĭ Denʹ materi , lyubovʹ moya-Happy Mother's Day, my love.