DISCLAIMER: I do not own, or claim to own, glee, any of the characters and songs mentioned in this story.

Same as always: Please watch out for any errors someone whose first language is not English might make and tell me if you find some.

Also, I would love it if you reviewed and told me how you liked this chapter.

Of Mothers And Mums

- Chapter 3 -

The Letter

She had slept in that day, knowing that she did not have to go anywhere until rehearsal at two in the afternoon. When she finally woke up and snuck a glance at the alarm clock, it was already 10:17 am. She tucked at the blanket lazily, contemplating whether or not she should stay in bed a little longer, but in the end sat up, felt for the t-shirt that must be lying somewhere on the floor, put it on and, with a yawn, finally got up on her feet. The sunlight fell through the high window and seeped through the white curtains, half-illuminating the room. She smiled, thinking that this was one of the things she had been looking forward to after they had finally made the decision to come to L.A. After all, this city had 300 to 320 sunny days a year.

Finn was already gone, of course. He currently worked as an auto mechanic at a garage about half an hour on foot from the tiny but beautiful apartment the two of them shared. She yawned again, had a stretch and then made her way to the combined kitchen and living room where they loved to have breakfast together – on the few days they had the opportunity to do so. She already smelled the coffee he had made and thus walked directly over to the counter and poured herself a cup of the now lukewarm drink. Holding the cup in both hands, she turned around and leaned against the counter, taking a sip of coffee every now and then and letting her eyes wander across the room.

The furniture was sparse. They did have a TV, standing on a low table made from some kind of dark wood, offering a beautiful contrast to the rather bright laminate floor. Some of that floor, the part in between the TV and the bright red leather sofa they had seemed to be saving up for forever, was covered by a soft dark brown rug that was almost the color of the TV table. The kitchenette, against the counter of which she was currently leaning, was as red as the sofa, topped with a plain white work surface. Apart from that, the last pieces of furniture remaining were a wooden table, matching the TV table and the rug in its color, with six white chairs with high backrests.

Until Kurt had visited his step-brother recently, exchanging New York for a brief impression of L.A., they hadn't had a single piece of artwork on the plain white walls. Kurt, however, had insisted that they at least cover the wall behind the sofa with wallpaper he himself had picked, following the color patterns of the room: It showed bright red flowers on dark brown stems – though it wasn't exactly the same color as TV table, dining table and rug, a fact about which Kurt had complained heavily – on a white background. Quinn had come to love it.

She had just put the coffee mug in the kitchen sink, decided o get her script for the play she would be starring in soon in order to reread the text and make sure she hadn't forgotten any of the lines – it was a stage production of the drama Intrigue and Love, written by German author Friedrich Schiller, in which she had landed the lead – when her eyes first fell on the letter. Whether it was out of intuition or simply curiosity she did not know, but she reached out for the light blue envelope that was lying on the dining table – Finn always got the mail in the morning – the moment she saw it. Her address was written on it in a neat, curved handwriting. There was no sender's address.

She opened the letter as she walked over to the sofa and collapsed onto it. There were three pages, all written in the same curved handwriting. Quinn turned to the last page, scanning it for a signature, and gasped. The letter was signed by Beth Corcoran.

Beth.

She closed her eyes and thought of the girl she had only known as a toddler, the beautiful, chubby girl with her own blonde hair and Puck's hazel eyes. It had hurt so much when Shelby had decided to not make them a part of her adoptive daughter's life, reversing her earlier decision to let them watch Beth growing up. It had been strange, always knowing that there was a part of her out there, a part of her she could not reach.

She still had the photographs, though. Every month, both she and Puck received a photo of their biological daughter sent by Shelby. Quinn kept all of them in a shoe box in her part of the wardrobe.

Four-year-old Beth in the sandbox, a flowered hat on her big head, building something that was probably meant to resemble a castle. Five-year-old Beth jumping on a trampoline. Six-year-old Beth on Halloween, covered in green paint, wearing a black hat and dress, with a note from Shelby reading She's always loved the music to Wicked. Seven-year-old Beth, spooning up the largest ice-cream-sundae Quinn had ever seen. Eight-year-old Beth, lying in a hammock in the garden behind Shelby's house, sleeping. Nine-year-old Beth struggling with her homework. Ten-year-old Beth on Broadway, enjoying the trip to New York Shelby had taken her on, grinning from ear to ear. Eleven-year-old Beth singing to some karaoke game, clasping the black plastic microphone, dancing around in the living room. Twelve-year-old Beth after her first experiments with make-up. Thirteen-year-old Beth in front of the cinema, hugging a red-haired girl. Fourteen-year-old Beth on the day of her birthday, surrounded by her friends and Shelby's family, blowing the candles a giant cake was covered in out.

Fifteen-year-old Beth had written this letter.

Quinn forced herself to breathe slowly, to calm down, relax. Her daughter, the girl she had given birth to, had written to her. She wanted to dance through the living room, open all the windows and scream her joy out to her neighbors. At the same time, she was trembling with fear and insecurity. What if the letter was loaded with accusations? What if …

Just. Read. It.

Right. She took one last, calming breath, went back to the first page and started to read.

Dear Quinn Fabray, dear Noah Puckerman,

Please let me explain why I write this letter all of a sudden. The truth is, I couldn't have done it earlier. Yesterday, I did not even know your names or that you even existed, let alone the part of my life the both of you are. My Mum, Shelby, has told me about you tonight. I know that you are my biological mother and father, that I am the product of a teen pregnancy, and that you gave me up for adoption. She said that you were aware of the fact that you could not raise a child at your age and did it for both my and your own good, but I would like to hear that from you, too.

You are my biological parents, and I would love some sort of contact with you. After Shelby told me about you, she helped me identify the both of you on a photo after your victory at Nationals with the New Directions. So I only know what you looked like in High School, and I can only make up an image of what you look like now from that.

Apart from that, everything I know about you, I know from Rachel (please don't be mad at her for not telling you I was going to write, I told her not to).

Quinn, I know that you are an actress, that you live in L.A., that you mainly work on stage productions. I know that you are engaged to Finn Hudson who was your High School boyfriend. And I know just about everything you did in High School from Rachel: that you were head cheerleader and popular, but also in glee club which, apparently, was the lamest thing ever? (Which isn't the case anymore, by the way.)

Noah, what I know about you is that you were quite a bad boy in High School. I know that you play the guitar, and that you make a living from playing in a band now (which sounds incredibly cool.) I know that you were on the football team and, also, in glee club.

That's everything, and it seems like so little to me. Once again: You are my biological parents, you are a part of me and should be a part of my life. I want to know everything about you, not just some random tiny bits of information. And I want to hear everything from you.

I hope you're curious about me, too. I know that Shelby has sent you a picture of me every month, but I don't know how much more she has told you, so:

I am currently a freshman in William McKinley High School. I have joined the New Directions (still run by Mr. Shue, who is my favorite teacher ever), and we have won Sectionals just yesterday.

I love to perform. I am also a part of a theatre group that has formed in our neighborhood, but have only played small parts so far. Our educator says I am talented, though.

I have played the piano since I was six years old and the guitar since I was eight.

I take dancing lessons in a ballet studio that is just around the corner.

I am best friends with a girl named Zoey. She has an amazing voice; we are in glee club together. She's in many of my classes and we spend a lot of time together out of school, too.

Before you ask: No, I do not have a boyfriend.

No pets either, although I am in love with just about every fluffy, furry animal. I have convinced our neighbor to let me walk his dog – a beautiful crème-colored mongrel – every Sunday, though.

That's all I can think of right now. You can ask me all the questions you want. My e-mail address is on the backside of this sheet (I would have given you my cell phone number, but I think I would have an emotional breakdown if you called, so let's start with e-mails).

Love,

Beth Corcoran

As soon as she'd read, and re-read, and then re-read the letter again, Quinn jumped up from the sofa, ran into the bedroom and grabbed her phone. She quickly dialed his number and waited impatiently for him to finally pick up.

"Quinn?" He sounded sleepy, but his voice was as deep and rich as always.

"Puck, have you already got the mail today?" She asked, speaking so fast that she almost got into a muddle.

"No, I haven't. Man, I wouldn't even have woken up hadn't you called." He complained, clearly oblivious to the urgency in her tone.

"Puck, I mean it. Get your ass out of bed and go to the letterbox right now." She told him commandingly, silently cursing his rock star lifestyle – by which she meant getting wasted at least five evenings a week and sleeping until noon the day after that, even when he and his "band" had a concert to get ready for. If it wasn't for Beth, she would have long broke relations with the wreck Puck had become. But their daughter, although they had not raised her or had any kind of responsibility for her whatsoever, was like an invisible link between them.

"What the hell - is this some kind of game, Fabray?" He said, sounding a lot more awake than he had before. So he had found the letter.

"Just read it, Puck." She said, exasperation evident in her voice. However, she waited patiently as she heard paper being torn at the other end of the line and Puck flicking through the pages.

"Beth." He breathed after some minutes, sounding as soft and vulnerable as she had ever heard him.

"Yes, Beth." She confirmed.

He took a deep breath. "So, what are we going to do?"

- "Intrigue and Love" (Kabale und Liebe) is a drama I had to read in school at some point - and really liked, so I thought I'd mention it.

- Please review!