Uh...really...
A/N: This is sort of a sequel to "Ooh-Oooh Child," an earlier fic I
wrote. At least, I'm using the same ideas for the Malucci family
situation and my version of what happened...at least, for this universe.
I've got other Dave fics in the works where things happened completely
differently. But for the people who asked if I was going to continue
"Ooh-Oooh Child," this is another in that series.
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My dearest son,
If I could say one thing to you and know you'd believe it, it would be this: It was never your fault.
I say it to you all the time, but of course, you can no longer hear me. And even if you could, I don't know if you'd believe me. But it's true, David...what happened was never your fault. Even though your conception was the catalyst for my marriage to your father, I would never change that. Nor would I change those first few years, when even though things weren't going well with your father and me, your sisters were born. The years after? Yes, those I would change.
Why did I stay with him? I honestly don't know now. I suppose part of it was the memories of the good times he and I had, although those good times became fewer and farther between after our marriage. And part of it may have been my upbringing, and my own father. I had already let him down by getting pregnant out of wedlock; how could I let him down even more by becoming a divorcee, especially a divorcee with three children? And so I stayed.
Do you know how much it breaks my heart to see you blaming yourself for what happened? Dave, if anything, I let you down...you and your sisters. Whenever I hear you thinking it was your fault, I wish I could take physical form again and hold you, like I used to when you were a little boy, smoothing down your hair and rocking you softly while singing to you about how things would get better. I was the one who stayed. You and your sisters had no choice in the matter; I made that choice for you. And it was a choice I had no right to make. And look at what that choice has cost us all. And of us all, I think you paid the heaviest price. I'm beyond it all now, Nicole and Angela are both out of their pain in their own ways, and your father...well, your father got off cheaply.
But you, David. Every day, I watch you hurting, hiding it all inside. Yes, you smile and laugh with your coworkers, but they don't know what I know...that it's a facade. I watch you bed countless women, and I see you in the dark afterwards, after the warm body beside you has gone to sleep, and I feel the emptiness you feel inside. I know the longing you have, the consuming desire to reach out to someone, to anyone, but I also know the fear that holds you back. And I know how you plant the seeds of your own defeat in every move you make.
But there are parts of your heart that even I'm not privy to. And what I can't understand is why. Why do you feel so worthless? Why are you so afraid of doing well? You were always the strong one in the family. You were the one who willingly took on the blows when you could, distracting your father from me and your sisters. Granted, you couldn't do it every time, but you tried. And God help us, we let you do it. You were our hero...mine, Niki's, even Angie's, though she would never admit it. Now you use that strength to hide away from other people.
I suppose we did that to you. Not just your father...all of us. But me most of all, because I could have stopped it. I could have taken your sisters and walked out, and never come back. But I didn't, and now you're paying the price for that. And blaming yourself for it, when you were the most blameless of all.
I remember reading you a story when you were a little boy, the story of King Arthur and his knights. And I remember how your eyes lit up as I read, how you seemed to hang on every word. When we reached the chapter about the quest for the Holy Grail, I don't think you breathed the entire time, you were so caught up in the story. And I remember the ending of that particular story. Sir Galahad, the purest of heart...he achieved the Grail, but he lost his life.
There are so many things I wish I could tell you now. But I can't. I'm dead, and I can only watch you and hurt with you, wishing I could somehow take your pain away. Wishing somehow I could make you believe.
It was never your fault. You were my Sir Galahad. And, oh God...what it cost you to be.
Your loving mother,
Antonia B. Malucci