Disclaimer: I do not own the Ender's Game series, any of its plots, or any of its characters.

Dear Andrew,

I suppose I should call you "Ender" now. I imagine it's what everyone calls you now, at Battle School. Maybe by now you've even forgotten your real name, forgotten the parents who gave it to you. But you were named "Andrew," and I wanted to explain to you why.

The best thing about a letter is that you can be as honest as you please. It takes no courage to write a letter, only to send it, and I don't plan to send this to you. It's not like you'd ever receive it anyway.

I'm sure, to you, I always seemed the dullest person, except for maybe your father, and I'm sure I was. But I only wanted to fit in.

My whole childhood, I was an outcast. I was born in Utah - as if that doesn't already say enough - born to religion. Religion is the enemy of progress, Andrew. It doesn't matter whether the progress was necessary or not, needed or not, because the progress has already been made. Religion only keeps you in the past. And when you're in the past, looking at the future, hearing the future's taunts, seeing the future's life, you never feel more alone. I only wanted to fit in. Religion wasn't worth it.

I suspect that you know how it feels, to be an outcast, to be alone. You're a Third, after all. You're the child we never wanted. You know that. I doubt we're very good at hiding it. But can you blame us? I spent my whole childhood standing out. I only wanted to fit in. You made that impossible. You were a constant reminder of what I'd failed to leave behind.

I didn't ever truly leave it behind, though. I renounced it, of course. If anybody asks, I was born far from Utah. But - and I hate to admit it to myself - I still believe in my God. I still believe in having more than two kids. I prayed over you, once. I've prayed over all of my children. I objected to your name, objected to your baptism, but not because it reflected religion. I objected because it didn't reflect mine.

I wish you never existed, Andrew. But I'm glad you do. If anything ever shows religion anymore, it's having more than two kids. You show religion. And I hate it. But I love it more.

I miss you. I don't know what that man, or any of the people up there told you, but that I wouldn't miss you is a lie. I stopped sending letters, of course. What was the point? It has, after all, been two years. But I never stopped writing them. This letter will be burned in an hour (yes, it was written on paper). But not before it will be wet with tears. A mother never stops missing her child.

I don't know whether you've forgotten me. You have probably forgotten my face. I can't rely on yours anymore. It has probably changed. Let me tell you, Andrew. Mine has too.

My hair is gray from my roots to my forehead. My forehead is lined. My eyes weigh heavy on my face. My smile is long gone, not that you ever saw it anyway.

I know you will never see me again. We've moved, anyway, so I know you won't. I lost hope before I sent that first letter. I lost hope before you got in that car. But I will always see your little six-year-old face, looking at us before you walked away. You didn't look at me, actually. You didn't look at Father or Peter, either. You looked at Valentine. I cried more. You weren't my Andrew, anymore. You had never really been. You were, and will always be, her Ender.

Happy birthday, Ender.

Mother