Author's Note: I pray that this never happens on the show. Just an idea that ended up expanding. Please R&R!
Dear Ryan,
I missed you today. I miss you everyday but today was even worse. It was one of those days that everything seems so beautiful and the world feels so large, and you end up feeling so insignificant. Seth went off to school early and Sandy had an important case to handle and I just sat in the kitchen. You boys never let me cook before, but now I'm learning. The ladies at the club all to the same class, not as fun as Yogalates but better in a way.
But that's not what I wanted to tell you about. Your son is living with us now. Theresa named him Christopher Ryan Atwood. She calls him Ryan though. She misses you. Thinking of you is too hard for her. Seeing your little boy, looking at his eyes- just like his father's, I guess it was too much for her. That's why Little Ryan lives with us now. He gets bigger everyday and you can tell just by looking at him, he's a tough little boy. Just like you were. Just like you are.
Sometimes it's hard for me too. To look at Little Ryan and not cry. His eyes change colors just like yours and when he smiles, you're in the room with us. And then I remember that you're not here. You're in Heaven- I believe you are. Despite all your bad boy antics, you're heart is something else. It's frightening that in the little time that you were with us, you became my son. When Sandy first brought you home, I was scared. I didn't know what to think of a boy that was a convicted criminal. I wanted you gone, do you know that? But you stayed. You kept to yourself. You made Seth laugh. You fell in love with the girl next door. You saved her. Your rough edges slowly broke off as you became smooth and soft, fitting in perfectly as the missing piece of the puzzle of my family.
I remember when you left to be with Theresa and take care of her. It was the first time I could literally feel my heart breaking, the stabs and slaps of pain in my chest would not subside. Tears found there way into the world- so many tears, Ryan. Too many tears. But nothing compared to the day that Theresa called us with the news.
How could you have been shot, Ryan? Despite my lacking knowledge of Chino, I believe that it is not a place where gun battles are waged daily. It's not a place where a good, honest boy is shot in the heart for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I believe that to this day because I haven't grasped the idea that you are gone. This is not my reality. You are not dead. There is no tombstone in the cemetery that reads "Ryan Atwood: 1987 – 2004".
But there is.
And I miss you.
Why were you there, Ryan? At that bar? Leaving so late at night? If you weren't you would have been there four weeks ago watching Theresa become a mother, holding your little boy in your arms. But you weren't. You were leaving a bar at two in the morning, heading back to your home with Theresa and some man shot you. The bullet found its way into your chest and pierced a hole into your lung. It wasn't until the sun tinged the sky with orange that they found you. And you were dead.
I blamed Theresa. If this angers you, then I'm sorry. It doesn't change my beliefs though. She was the one who came to Newport. She was the one that seduced you. She was the one that got herself pregnant. But I know that doesn't make sense. Because we're both at fault too, Ryan. Me- for telling her not to get an abortion. And you- for having such a big heart, for always trying to do what's right, for wanting to give this little boy a good home and a family.
He has a family now, Ryan, don't you worry. We're the Cohens: Sandy, Kirsten and Seth. And we've adopted a new member to our family. A boy with amazing eyes and a great smile, his name is Ryan.
We know that there should be one more Ryan in our family though. Another boy with amazing eyes and a great smile, but you're not with us now. And I guess, it's starting to be okay.
I didn't cry at your funeral, you know. You probably saw me, dressed in black, holding Sandy's hands tightly and hugging Seth as he sobbed continuously. My black dress, the one that I have hidden and never want to see again, was stained with tears of so many people. Seth, Sandy, Jimmy, Marissa, Summer, Theresa, Dawn... Not mine though. I was the strong one. The one that they hugged and whispered beautiful words about you to. I took on that responsibility, because I believed that's what a mother did. I was your mother, Ryan. You didn't come from my body, but you belonged to my heart. My heart which broke over and over again as Dawn was comforted as the "mother of the deceased". She raised you and I know she loves you, but I was there too. I healed your wounds, I didn't cause them. I loved you, Ryan. You were my son.
Maybe I don't even need to tell you this. Perhaps you've been watching all along. That gives me comfort, the same kind you get from plunging into the chilly ocean water on a boiling summer's day. Smiles fill my soul knowing that yours is watching.
Little Ryan is so beautiful. Seth says that you'd be upset at me for calling your son beautiful, but he doesn't understand what it's like to be a parent. To see yourself and your loved one all wrapped up in purity and beauty. That's what a baby is, Ryan and if you were here to see your son, I'm sure you'd agree. I'm sure you'd give your classic smile and show your shiny teeth and say "That's my boy".
You're not though. You're not here.
You're not here.
You're gone.
You're dead.
No matter how many times I say it, the words aren't real. There is no meaning.
Because you are so alive.
You live every moment your son breathes. Every time my heart skips a beat, I know you're smiling at me. You protect me every time I have to talk to Julie Cooper. I see your lips whenever Marissa is near. I hear your voice when Summer and Seth converse. You are gone, but you aren't. You live. In my heart, in the hearts of everyone that's ever met you. No one will let you die. And everyone, me especially, will remind your son day after day after day about his wonderful father.
I'm sorry for the tear stains. When I said I didn't cry at your funeral, it didn't mean that I didn't cry for you. I cried for you for too many hours. Kneeling by your bed in the pool house, I shed tears on the sheets you once slept in. I wept as I held your picture in my hands, tears collecting on the frame. I cried for you, Ryan. I cry for you. But every time I do, I remember every laugh and smile and good deed I saw you do. And suddenly, my tears seem useless.
I love you, my son.
Always,
Kirsten