(Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it's done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.)

September 2nd

Labor Day

Dear Sydney,

it feels a bit odd writing to you, you having shuffled off this mortal coil and all, but a good friend gave me your letters, and they in turn gave me the idea to explore my thoughts and observations this way. And I don't think you'd mind, anyway. So here we are.

Sarah paused and looked out over the back yard. A soft breeze tugged at her curls, played with the page on which she wrote. It was a fine day, warm and sunny; clouds chased each other across a pale blue sky. But the trees had already begun to turn, and the brush at the edges of the wood across the meadow showed golden-brown. "The time of no reply," she said aloud, and heard Nick Drake's soft, clear voice sing the song in her mind. She put pen to paper once more.

I'm feeling a little lost and lonely at the moment, so I'm taking a good look at what's going on in my life, and with the people around me. It's an occupational hazard for our profession, I think.

If I were to consider my current mood, it seems to stem mainly from missing spending time with my children. I broke my arm earlier this summer, and my family spoiled me thoroughly by hanging out with me at every opportunity.

I should explain-they're not really mine in the sense of bloodlines and physically giving birth. To be truthful, it would be impossible for my oldest to really be my child in more ways than one—but all three boys belong to me.

The oldest . . . you'd find him a fascinating case, Sydney. I've never met anyone with such a strong and overriding rational mind, absolutely convinced that he's composed entirely of logic and empirical observation, and yet the owner of a powerful and . . . I was going to write 'skilled', but that isn't quite the word. 'Observant', perhaps—observant intuition. Yes, that fits better. At any rate, his higher consciousness is amused at the conscious mind's insistence on being the only game in town. It's quite enlightening, watching him use both in tandem to great advantage, and pride himself on his rational approach.

Sarah paused.

Perhaps 'pride' is the wrong word. Greg is the least prideful person I've ever met. He can be arrogant, overbearing, sarcastic, abrasive, impatient, manipulative, and sometimes cruel, but he is not proud. His first goal is to be right, and by that he means absolute truth. You and I both know the truth is a three-edged sword: there's your truth, mine, and what is. Greg seeks that third option.

From all this talk of his single-mindedness, you might think he's a humorless, pedantic jerk. Nothing could be further from the truth. He's equal parts brilliance and hyperactive eight year old. No one sees more beauty in a drop of water or a note of music. He delights in humor and small wonders—the condensation of breath on a window-pane, the way the laws of physics move a Hot Wheels car through a descending maze of CD cases, the trajectory of a baseball, the play of puns and jokes. And he soaks up love like a sponge, now that he's beginning to open himself to trust. For someone who's endured many betrayals and a great deal of pain at the hands of people who supposedly cared for him, that says much about his character.

I still remember the first time I met him, when profound pain and fear had him trapped in loneliness and misery. He's come so far, and I'm so proud of him. You'd probably smile if I told you he's a decade older than me, but he's still my son. You'd understand families are not made just of blood and DNA and who birthed whom, but also of heart and spirit. Maybe mainly of those last two.

He does have someone, Sydney—a wonderful woman who loves and is loved by him. They're good for each other. Their relationship hasn't been an easy one, but I don't think they mind, in the end. It keeps them both from getting bored, at any rate.

Sarah turned the page and picked up her drink, took a sip and savored the sweet fire of fresh ginger, lime juice and honey paired with sparkling water. She moved her gaze to Greg and Roz's place, smiled a little at the sight of Roz's truck in the driveway. Her friend was taking more time off from her work as an electrician to tutor students at both the middle and high school levels, with the possibility of adding elementary students next year. It was a good change for her; her self-confidence had grown over the summer as her pupils had progressed. And she'd begun to come home a little early, to meet her husband for an hour or two of quality time together. "Nice work if you can get it," Sarah said under her breath with a chuckle, and turned back to her letter.

As for my middle child, he was something of a surprise. I wonder—how many mothers have said that of their next baby? I'd never expected Rob Chase to enter my life the way he has. When we met he was struggling, trying to bring some meaning to his existence. It hasn't been easy for him, but he's found his own strength and moved away from drowning his pain in alcohol and ending up with women who inevitably leave him the way his mother did. He's become more sure of himself, of what he wants and what he can do, and it's been a delight watching him grow. He's found someone too, a ready-made family. He and his Clare are still in the courting stage, but I think it won't be much longer before we'll be renting out the fire hall for the reception. The best part of that, Sydney, is my husband and I being offered the job of surrogate grandparents. We've already bought a playpen and toys. And neither of us has the slightest doubt that the number of grandchildren will increase, given time and opportunity.

As for my youngest . . .

Sarah paused. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a moment, as she listened to sounds from the house behind her. Jason was awake; she'd seen him in the kitchen earlier, still in his sleep pants and tee shirt, as he rummaged through the fridge for a quick pre-breakfast snack. Undoubtedly he'd taken a couple of slices of cold pizza and a surreptitious (and forbidden) Coke back to the office, to devour while he worked on yet another extra-credit project.

We adopted him, Sydney. I still can't believe he's really ours. Jason is the most amazing boy. He came to us by accident, quite literally, from a history of profound abuse and pain-a history he's still learning to face, acknowledge and accept. It hasn't been easy for him, but he's willing to learn and grow. His courage is immense, and it humbles me to see it.

Of course he's also a teenager, with all the changes and challenges his age brings. Gene and I had to ground him last month for taking the truck into town alone. He's still on a learner's permit and needs an adult to ride with him, but in his mind, his need to go to work two hours earlier than scheduled outweighed our decision to the contrary. Even after we grounded him, he continued to argue his point. The day after the grounding ended, he took the truck into town to go to work two hours early. So we sat down and talked with him about why he felt the need to repeat such an action, as he's not defiant by nature. It was one of the best two hours we've spent together as a family—not because what we talked about came easily, but because Jason trusted Gene and me enough to answer our questions honestly and without hesitation. We learned he felt it was his responsibility to do as much for his employer as he could, whether he was paid for it or not, and whether it got him into trouble or not. We worked out a compromise, but the true reward was the strengthening of trust and understanding among all of us.

Sarah remembered her own teenage years, the struggle to move from chaos and hopelessness to find a way forward. It had given her the insight to find her own strength, but she was still glad Jason had parents to offer him another, better method of discovery.

Sydney, I think you would like Gene. He's 'a pirate of exquisite mind', and my best friend. It's been tough watching him struggle with his wartime experiences, with the loss of his family contacts, but he's worked hard to find the patterns in his behavior, and he's even started a dream journal to recover some of his memories—a big step for someone who's spent a lot of time and energy trying to forget what happened to him during his childhood, and his time in the military. Over the summer he took excellent care of me while my arm healed, and it was made clear, if I'd ever forgotten it, that he truly is my best friend. I hope I'm his as well. Spending time in his company is a privilege. When he's not here it feels like part of me is missing somehow.

As for my own experience . . . it's been an interesting summer. Usually this time of year is spent in bringing in the harvest and fixing things around the house, but having a broken arm put paid to much of that. It sent my attention into my practice, and working on a paper that may or may not ever get published. I think at this point it's just cheap therapy, ha ha.

"Mom?" Jason stood in the doorway. "Do you want me to make breakfast?"

"I'll be right in," Sarah said. "What would you like?"

"Bacon and eggs. And waffles. I can get the bacon started."

"Okay, that would be great. I'll be there in a minute."

Well Sydney, I'm being called away to get the day started, so I'll leave the rest of my own progress for another letter. Writing to you is easier than I thought it would be. I think this might just be a regular thing. Hope you don't mind hearing all the news now and then.

All my best, and say hello to Carl and Sigmund for me—Sarah

She finished the letter, removed the page from the notebook and tucked the paper in the folder at the back. Slowly she got to her feet, stretched a little, rolled her shoulder—still stiff and sore, but better than a heavy cast—and went into the house on a yawn.

'Time Of No Reply,' Nick Drake