Marvel and Fox owns; I'm just borrowing the toys. I'll try to have them back before curfew.
In the life of Mystique, once known as Raven Darkhölme-Xavier, there were good and bad moments, as in any life. The bad times outnumbered the good, which was no surprise; she was a mutant, after all, and living a rotten life was written in her genes as sure as her shape-shifting. If she'd ever bothered to sit down and think about it, really think about it, most of the bad times had ties to Erik; and all of the goods were tied to Charles.
But she was Mystique, so that didn't really matter anyways.
After Charles took her in, there had been no more pain; or, at least, far less than she had been used to. Charles' mother left shortly after Raven came into the picture, and his father might as well have left too. The telepath had had to raise himself practically. Raven had been lucky, though; she'd had Charles to raise her. He'd been big brother, father, and teacher all rolled into one. And on those rare, rare days where her armor would slip just the tiniest bit, she'd find herself curled up in bed, head stuffed up against her pillow in an attempt to stem the tears, as she mourned for all she'd lost; all she'd given up.
But those were Raven's thoughts, and she was Mystique; so it didn't really matter anyways.