Letters to Fred [CURRENTLY OPEN TO REQUESTS]

Molly #2

Dear Fred,

I thought that a new letter was overdue. Way overdue really.

I just couldn't bring myself to write like this: write to you, letting you know what's going on, and yet know that you'll never write back. 

It hurts. So much. Three months since it happened, and not a single day extra has lessened the pain.

We've all been dealing with it differently. Your father doesn't seem to know what's better though: working overtime so as to keep himself occupied, or spend time with us because it's proven just how important family is, and how little time we could have left with everyone.

George keeps on repeating one of the two two-worded sentences when asked how he's doing. It's either "I'm fine." or "He's lucky.". The second is heart-breaking, Fred. George considers you to be lucky that you're dead. 

Bill and Fleur are expecting a child. If you were still here, you'd be an Uncle soon. You'd comment on how odd that thought is. Then smile with George and together you'd dismiss the role of a responsible relative. You'd opt to be the "Cool" Uncles, and you'd both train the child - and any future nieces/nephews - to become like the pair of you. To be something their parents are proud of. With mischief and yet that hint of manipulation, to get out of tricky situations. 

And yet that's all a great big "if". "If" you were still alive that could happen. You're not though. 

Do you know that I remember Muriel asking you what you wanted to be when you were older and grown up. You were only about five, but you knew that no matter what you said she'd be dissapointed. So you looked at her, looked confused at the question then asked her - in all seriousness - what she meant. So she repeated the question and you looked at her again. Then you replied.

"I'm not going to grow up." That's what you told her, "If I don't grow up, I won't need to decide."

Her expression was priceless. It has happened though. Now you won't need to grow up any more. 

When your father gets sad about  your death, we think back on those moments. You were such an adorable child. A complete and utter handful, yes, but adorable too.

If you were here, you'd tell me to never call you adorable ever again. For now though, I'll settle on saying that I won't call you it again in this letter. And I'll prove that by ending it here.

Bye Freddie-kins. Okay, I'll stop properly this time. Otherwise I'll end up getting pranked big-time by the time I get to you.

Sending lots of hugs and kisses,

Mum xoxox

P.S. Don't get mad at me for that - it's a reflex to sign it that way.