Author's Name: Jolly

Title of Story: You

Type of Story: AU

Rating of Story: PG-13

Warnings: Not a typical HB story. A little abstract. This story is written in second person in response to a challenge from Rokia.

Plot Blurb: None

Splash Page: None

Again, this story owes its pristine state of grammar to JD's meticulous' scrutiny. Thank you.

Please read and review.

You

By Jolly

The Story

You.

You were in the kitchen peeling potatoes and dicing onions.

You.

You were a mother.

A mother of two very fine sons; in reality as in fiction. And also in fan fiction. Your sons were much beloved by a group of ardent fans. They followed closely every mystery your sons ever solved, and every adventure your sons ever took. So much so they made up their own stories about what your sons might have done and what they might have been capable of.

And you have to admit, a good number of those stories were a notch above the official publications. In fact, you even had a favorite fan fiction author or two, and about a half-dozen stories too.

You cannot deny it. But one of the key reasons why you loved those particular fan fictions was because you were in it. Those few fictions had attributed a bigger role to you than just a faceless woman, whom the boys called 'mom' whenever they returned home from school or from solving a mystery or from saving the world. In those stories, you were working part-time at a book-store, or were the daughter of a judge, or even a working medical professional!

Or even a villainess. In fact, that was your favorite story. It was something different from the typical goody-goody fanfare being served almost all the time.

That was a far cry from being a stay-at-home mom and a perfect housewife, and always in the background.

Damn! Even Aunt Gertrude had a larger presence than you in the boys' lives. At least her identity was fairly consistent. She was Aunt Gertrude, Aunty, or Aunt Trudi. Your identity, on the other hand, was a mess. You were Laura in some, Mildred in one, and Eloise or Eileen or something like that, in others. The sad truth was that you were not even mentioned in a good number of the books being published. You did not exist for many of the ghostwriters. And even when you did, you were but a one-dimensional wallpaper.

That was a real sore spot with you.

'Don't they know who cooked the Last Supper?'

You wanted to scream at those writers, and to shake some common sense into them. Someone should tell them to appreciate their mothers for bringing them into this world.

A family was more than just two brothers loving each other; the parents must love and respect their children and the children must in turn love and respect their parents. And you, the housewife and mother, were the core of the family, holding everyone together, cooking and feeding them, making sure they dressed well, and being there for emotional and moral support when needed.

You brought your cleaver down hard onto the chopping board, cleanly cutting through the bone. You were still a little irritated that those male writers never appreciated what it took to be a housewife and a mother. They had to be males!

You continued to chop up the meat, and then applied the proper marinade. They would be having honey-baked pork spare-ribs for dinner tonight. Your sons' favorite. They always told you that you made the best spare-ribs in town. And they boasted to all their friends and yours too, about it.

You sighed. Your sons were all grown-up now. They no longer stayed at home. They now lived in their dorms on campus, and only came home on weekends, or on special occasions. How quickly time flies! you thought wistfully, wishing that you could recapture the old days long gone by. But some things were not meant to last, and the old grandfather clock continued its slow journey into the future, never looking back.

Your husband was still going about running his detective agency with that long-time partner, Sam. They were doing very well, but nowhere near the level of reputation attributed to them in those fictional accounts. But, they did have some cases involving rather high levels of security clearance, dealing with tracking movements of terrorists' funding. And your sons had helped on their father's cases whenever they could. It gave them extra pocket money doing all the grunt work, and also gave them valuable work experience. Like your husband, you believed in working for your money.

'Such exciting lives!'

You wished you were there helping them crack the case. But you were a stay-at-home mom and a housewife. So in the privacy of your mind, you dreamed up your own cases and adventures. And you read fan fictions where you were something else other than what you are. And the one featuring you as the villainess was the best. You outwitted them all, and showed them never to underestimate a woman.

But of course your sons would always be the good guys and the heroes. Any hint of them being the bad guys, and the story got the instant boot to the trash can located on the bottom right hand corner of the computer screen.

No one. And you meant it from the bottom of your heart and soul. No one had that right to taint your sons with the cheap ink of a dishonorable pen!

Ah! The food's almost done! The ribs in the oven, the salad all prepared, only waiting for the dressings. The mashed potatoes sat nice and warm in the pot on the stove. Next to that pot was your husband's favorite Moroccan chicken soup. And to the side, a pineapple upside down cake was cooling on the rack.

You glanced at the clock on the oven. It was almost time, and they would be home soon. You felt a sense of anticipation. It had been almost a week since you last saw them.

The image of your elder son appeared in your mind. He was tall, standing at six foot one, and he inherited his father's rich brown hair and those soft brown eyes. He was every bit as handsome as his father. He inherited his father's knack for deductive thinking, but also his fiery explosive temper. Thank the Lord he also inherited the ability and discipline to keep it under control most of the time.

You sighed as you remembered the gawky, lanky young man who shyly asked you to be his date at senior prom so many years ago. You had fallen for those eyes, so gentle and so loving, and had loved him from then till now. You never regretted the fact that you had never dated anyone else. Why should you, when you have already met your soul mate?

Then you conjured the image of your younger son in your mind's eye. He was also tall, though an inch shorter than his big brother. He inherited your wavy blond hair and deep blue eyes; eyes that never failed to sparkle with the joy of living. Just like you, as your husband always said. This one would be a heart-breaker, having inherited the best features from both you and your husband. And he had inherited your passionate nature and sharp wits. And your quick temper. Or so your husband claimed.

They were born a year apart, but were as tight as twins. There were many mothers who had told you over the years how envious they were of your children. Siblings who looked out for each other and seldom fought.

Yes, they were your pride and joy.

You finished cleaning up the kitchen and started to set the table. You frowned. They were late. They were never late. For a moment, you felt your heart speed up a little. Could anything have happened?

'Foolish woman!' you reprimanded yourself.

Those were fiction, and this was real life!

They really should be here soon. Perhaps it was the traffic.

And while waiting, your thoughts wandered again. You wondered how those fans would feel if they knew the real Frank and Joe Hardy grew up in this very house on the corner in a very real Bayport in New York state. Would they know if they were to walk past them on the streets? Would they even know if they were to have the opportunity to sit down and chat and have coffee with them?

You laughed and shook yourself out of your wild musings. Of course not! There were so many dark- and light-haired brothers in the world…

'But with a detective father?'

And not even their neighbors knew who they lived next to! You could now well understand the meanings and the effectiveness of hiding in plain sight.

You shook your head. It really did not matter. You knew there was little chance people would realized that the Hardy Boys' adventures were based on your family. That was why you allowed Leslie MacFarlane to write all those stories in the first place. Your sons had provided the notes from their personal case files. And that was why those original books were your favorites. They were real fiction. The income from those books had provided well for your sons' education. They were now both in Harvard doing a double degree. Both chose to do law. However, the elder had chosen mathematics as the second major, while the younger had chosen philosophy. They were just so brilliant! And they were your sons! Yours.

You were interrupted from your musings by the sound of a car pulling up into your drive. You glanced out of the window, and were surprised to see all the three men of the house got out of the car together. And they did look like they were up to something.

You sighed, sensing another three against one coming on.

'That was just so unfair!'

Then again, perhaps that was worth being able to grow old surrounded by those three handsome men. Which women would not love that idea? You were sure some of those fans out there would die for an opportunity like that. And you have it!

They entered the house together, and soon all three stood before you. The air of excitement about them was almost palpable. You felt your curiosity began to spark, and all too soon it flared into a burning flame. But you held your silence.

Your eldest stepped towards you, leaned down and placed a kiss upon your cheek. He placed a brown wrapped package in your hands.

You looked at the package resting so snugly in your palms, and then looked at your eldest, then the other two, your brow raised enquiringly.

"Happy Birthday!" the three of them chorused.

"Open it, Mom!" your youngest prompted, his tone eager.

Ah, ever so impatient.

"Could you not let your mother savor the moment a little longer?" You shook your head at his expectant expression. "Your mother even forgot it was her birthday today!"

You took another closer look at the brown wrapped package. It felt heavy, and soft. Slowly, you un-wrapped the brown paper, followed by a thick velvet cloth, and saw this lovely handcrafted wooden box.

"That was from me," your husband chipped in. "Took me six months to get it right, plus all the polishing and varnishing."

You let your fingers lovingly trace all those patterns that your beloved husband spent months planning and etching. It was a lovely gift, the best he had given you in the twenty-two years of marriage. Unlike all the previous costly gifts, this one was personal. It had a heart and a soul.

"Come on, Mom, you got to open the box. You can appreciate the carvings later, please, Mom?" Your younger son interrupted again.

"Please Mom, just open the box, and Joe's right. You really can appreciate Dad's gift later…"

Now your curiosity was really piqued. If even your calmer elder son was impatient, you knew there was something special inside.

For a moment, you played with the idea of teasing them a little. By making them wait a little longer. But your own curiosity won out, and so you slowly opened the box.

Inside was a leather-bound book. It was a beautiful and expensive looking leather-bound book.

You looked up to find two young expectant faces smiling at you. Go on, they seemed to say to you.

You opened the book and saw the dedication written within.

This book is dedicated with love to our mother. She was always there for us, even when we were not there for her. For her years of silent labor, little seen but much appreciated. For her love of her family, and her sacrifices, that gave us what we have today, and made us who we are today. For Laura, a mother's tale, Daughter of Avalon.

You could feel your eyes tearing as you moved on to read the summary of the novel. Oh my goodness, you breathed. Your sons wrote it. And they had spun the story out of your favorite Arthurian tales! And they got it published. Avalon Publishing. You laughed. How appropriate!

You looked into your sons' eyes, bright with love and so much more.

'This story was about you. It was for you.' Frank said. 'And Mom, we love you very much.'

'Thanks for everything you did for us, Mom…' Joe added.

'Happy birthday, Mom…' the boys said.

'Happy birthday, Laura,' Fenton said.

That book was written for you.

You. Their mother. His wife.

Just you. And only you.

You.

THE END