Dear Meg

When, or if, you get this letter, I hope that you know…

That I'm sorry.

I know it's a long overdue apology, that you're beyond the point of forgiveness, but I need to get this off my chest before it swallows me whole.

When you left our home, I've taken some time to reflect. I sat in my room, drank some wine, and found some old videotapes I took of you.

Do you remember, Meg?

When you were four, and you fell and scraped your knee? I swooped you up in my arms and kissed your knee. I looked into your eyes and sang you the Sunshine song.

Do you remember how it went, Meg?

You are my Sunshine, my Lovely Sunshine,

You make me happy, when skies are gray.

I'll always love you and protect you.

No one will take my Sunshine away.

Your smile was all the reward I needed.

It was then I promised to you, to Chris, to Stewie, that I would be the best mother I could be. I won't be like my cold mother or my money-hungry father. I will do things right by putting my past behind me and starting over.

But I didn't, did I?

I wasn't the best mother to you, now was I?

I was mean to you, I belittled you, I pointed out your shortcomings when mine are glaring back at me in the face. I projected my frustrations, my insecurities, my failures, onto you. I looked at you and saw a failure. Me.

I'm a failure.

I'm in a dead-end marriage with an idiot, living out my glory days reminiscing on when I could've been somebody. I had the looks, the brains, the talent, and I wasted it all on your father.

But you, you have potential. You graduated high school. You have ambitions of being a writer. Not once have you relied on your looks or how far you could spread your legs to get anywhere. Your friends are loyal and honest people that love you for your personality, and are still present.

You're…

Everything I wished I was when I was your age.

Perhaps that's why I'm so hostile; I never could relive my high school years and I'm bitter.

If I could rewind time, I would've pursued a college education before I met your father. I would've pursued a career-worthy major and got a job. I would've had children at 32, and it'd be with someone who's going somewhere with his life. And still be unsatisfied. I never could be happy with anything, Meg. I'm an impossible woman to be with.

I read your stories, watched you grow from a misunderstood teenager to an angry woman whose heart is weak with hatred for her own blood. A woman who hates the very blood that birthed her. A woman who used her hatred to pack her bags and leave to make something out of her life, wherever she is.

I can honestly say, I'm proud of you.

You refuse to let others drag you down. You stood up for yourself and left before it could get worse. Before I've successfully crippled your wings and you're stuck in the shithole you crawled out of.

You made it.

I'm sorry that it took all this to make you leave.

I'm sorry that I haven't offered you the guidance you deserved, the attention you needed and the support you craved. I'm sorry I didn't stick up for you when Peter went too far with his shenanigans that hurt you. I'm sorry I didn't help you when the world turned against you because of your perceived ugliness.

The sad part is, you're not ugly. We are. We're the most disgusting creatures on the planet, so comfortable in our own ugliness that we've become blind to the only beauty that mattered. You're beautiful, Meg. I'm not saying this because I'm your mother, or because I pity you, but because you are beautiful.

You're loyal, giving, caring, intelligent, honest, sweet, and determined.

You learned early that looks don't matter when you got the grit to survive.

You survived your terrible upbringing. You clawed your way to independence and a dream. You have, or had, a job just to help pay the bills and pocket some for your ambitions.

And that in and of itself, is beautiful.

Not many of us can admit we've done that.

This isn't an apology letter, or a ply for your pity to give me some empty-handed forgiveness. This is a goodbye letter.

I'm dying, Meg.

I can't tell you what it is, but the doctor told me I have one year, if I'm lucky. So I'm now sorting through ny assets and my will. Since your grandfather died, I've been the sole proprietor of Pewterschmidt Empires. Do you know what that means? I have enough cash to leave Quahog and start over anywhere. I have enough money to divorce your father and take you, Stewie, and Chris to anywhere in the world and still live luxuriously.

But, I'm giving it to you.

When I pass, you get the Pewterschmidt Empire and half of my estate and assets. You can then decide who deserves the rest. Choose wisely.

I'm giving you all of this power not as a last attempt for mercy, but because I realized you've earned it. You know not to waste money, you know who deserves the cash and who doesn't, and I'm assured that you'll never let money change you.

You can have all this, on two conditions.

One, you must never give up on your dream. I don't care how long it takes, you need to keep pushing.

Two, you never change. Money changes people, and I don't want you to learn the hard way what it can do. I've hit rock bottom one too many times to learn that lesson.

I love you, Meg.

I always will love you, even though you hate me and will probably destroy this letter out of spite.

Just promise me you'll be successful with or without the money and not let our mediocre family drag you down. Please, keep pushing. Keep struggling. Keep succeeding.

You are my Sunshine after all.

~Lois