don't make this another one.

Hi, guys. I've been away for too long from this story, and I apologize. To make up for it, I have two chapters being posted tonight!

So, I think I sent everyone replies. Who I could, anyway. The rest of you have replies below!

Abcdeliteforce (guest): Thanks! And yes, I'll try to incorporate that into a future chapter.

PurpleNicole531: I've very happy you liked it! Honestly, all the relationships are the best, I just kind of extra love Breo. I'm trying not to be biased, though. XD Anyway, yes, we're totally on the same page here! I wish… well, I wish a lot of things happened, but yeah, we've got to rely on!

Caris (guest): Thanks for the suggestion! It's gone into the box.

Alrighty, this prompt is actually from me: "Regrets—don't make this another one." I know it's not from my own mind, but I don't know where it originates from. (On that note, please tell me if you know!) It's set sometime in the future… twenty-fiveish years from the end of LR, if I did the math right.

Anyway, enjoy, everyone!

It's been years.

She keeps tabs on them, yes, she reads all the articles and watches the news. But she never talks to them.

She hasn't got a phone anymore—she broke the old one (half on purpose and half because she's useless with technology) around the time when they kept calling her and tried to track her using it. Never bothered replacing it.

She doesn't own any fancy technology at all, actually—she was never really any good with it, like she's always known. She sits in the public library a lot for that very reason: there are simple desktop computers there.

That's where she heads now, struggling up the steep and cracked steps of the old building. Pushing the door open, she breathes a sigh of relief when a blast of hot air from inside hits her. The teen sitting at the front desk looks up from a book and smiles when the visitor approaches.

"Hey, Mrs. D!" the teen chirps.

"Hi, Sam," she replies, smiling in return. "Got that promotion yet?"

"Not yet, unfortunately," Sam says. "But remember, hush, I'm not supposed to tell anyone that the offer's on the table at all!"

"Of course," she replies, laughing slightly.

Sam grins. "Well, what brings you here today? You don't have any books checked out, as far as I can remember…"

She shakes her head. "No, I'm just here to use your computers."

"Oh, of course," Sam nods. "Well, you know where to find them." As she walks away, Sam calls, "have a good day, Mrs. D!"

Already having opened the door to the computer room, she chooses only to smile over her shoulder before stepping inside.

A thought she's tried to quash rises again: Sam reminds me of…

No. She's not going to think about it.

Sitting down in front of one of the computers, she opens her email inbox. Yes, archaic at this point, but it's not like she has many other options.

She only has one message, this time labeled just 'N' instead of 'L&N'. (That would have been odd a few months ago, but not now.)

Opening it, she tries to read it as distantly and disconnected from it as she always does. She knows it won't work, but she'll try anything.

Mom, the message begins, and she braces herself.

In response to your last email: I know you're not coming home. I know. But I also know that I—well, and my brother—am the only one you've told.

Everyone else expects you to come back, Mom. Forget that it's been seven years since it happened, forget that it's been five since you left. Everyone thinks you're coming back, and they think you're coming back soon.

Mom, I know you blame yourself. But that doesn't make any sense, Mom, don't you get that? It wasn't your fault that Dad died. And I know you blame us, too, in a little part of you that wishes you didn't. But we couldn't have done anything. We know it. He knew it. He told us that before he died. And it doesn't matter whose fault it was.

What does matter is what Dad wanted. And Mom, I know I'm going to sound harsh here, but I really don't care about whatever is stopping you from seeing your own children. Do you remember what Dad said, the day before it happened? He said, "I want you to know that this doesn't mean that you have to fall apart. In fact, I want you to work together now, more than ever." (Chase has that conversation saved, so that's an exact quote.)

Mom, I was eighteen when Dad died. I never got to tell him I got into Columbia. I never got to tell him that I wanted to be a writer. Guess what? I got to tell you. And then, when I was twenty, coming back home to visit, what did I get? I got my family telling me that you were gone. Mom, do you know how much you scared me? Until I found out I could contact you (as long as I didn't tell the others you weren't coming back), I thought I would never get to tell you anything ever again. (I thought it might be my fault, for not staying and helping you.)

Mom, I didn't tell Leo I was going to write you this. He saw you go through that first marriage that didn't work out. And then we both saw what happened to the second. We're the only two who have seen what you've gone through during this time, after Dad died and home became a prison to you. He would try to dissuade me from sending you this, thinking it would drive you further away. But you know what? I don't think you can get further away. Mom, I needed you in my life at the time you left. I could rely on my siblings, being so experienced, but I also needed my mother. I still need my mother.

My twenty-fifth birthday is tomorrow, Mom. Leo said he was planning something for me, and I appreciate that, really. I love everything he's done for me. But, Mom, he isn't you.

If there's one thing I can tell you, it's that in the future, you'll regret leaving us for so long. You haven't been home to see us in five years. We're your kids, Mom: me, Leo, Adam, Bree, Chase. Even Daniel thinks so. And yeah, we all miss Dad, Uncle Douglas included. Who wouldn't miss Dad? But we have to move past it, if only for him.

You don't have to come home, okay? I know it hurts, and I would never make you do that. But at least let us go to you. We owe it to Dad. You owe it to us. You owe it to yourself. Let us see you again.

So, Mom, since we're talking about regrets: don't make this another one.

Love from your daughter,

Naomi

P.S. We never hated you. Please come home.

In under ten seconds, a speed she didn't know she possessed until just now, Tasha has already composed and sent a reply:

Of course, Naomi. Of course.

Love,

Mom

Bleh, I'm sad now. Then again, I've been sad all day, but… it's a better kind of sad. :') (I'm sorry for killing Davenport again. Everyone loves doing that in these future fics, I don't know why [you can also interpret how he died however makes most sense to you]. And… honestly, leaving doesn't seem like something the Tasha of right now would do, but… well, I think juggling six kids, five of whom are basically superheroes, and a husband dying would put a bit of a strain on a person's mind. And yeah, I know it was dramatic, so don't judge me.)

I don't know where this idea came from. I was going to do something about Bree or Adam, but then I kept thinking about how weird it must be for Baby Davenport thanks to the other one-shot I posted about her—the sibling closest to her age is thirteen years older than her, and that's only if we count Daniel. In this story, she's twenty-five, while Leo is around forty-two/forty-threeish. That's gotta be isolating, even if it means she had a lot of mature people looking out for her.

Yeah, I'm sad again.

Anyway, I'm posting another chapter right after this, and it's gonna be a doozy. It's the day for sad short fics. See you in a minute!