When my son was little, I often thought of him as an odd child. He played well enough with his younger sister, Elisabeth, but he preferred to sit alone in his room whenever possible. For hours, he would play with his blocks, building cities and lives for the people in them. It was almost as if he were waiting for something, for someone.

That someone arrived in the form of a six-year-old girl named Amanda Burne. She came into our home with a new name, sad eyes, and a heaviness of heart. For all intents and purposes, she arrived an orphan. All we knew was she somehow lost both of her parents in a very small window of time. In those three years she lived in our home, she lacked nothing – we incorporated her fully into our family and provided her with every privilege we gave to our own children.

But it was my son, Francis, who brought her to life. For the first time, he felt needed. He offered Amanda something that went beyond basic human needs – himself. The first few months, she barely spoke, but he would sit at her side for hours. He set aside his cities and their inhabitants for a simpler companionship – just waiting for the chance to hear her voice. Occasionally, he would reach over and grasp her hand, squeezing it gently to remind her that she wasn't alone in the world.

I have no clue how, of all things, my son became empathetic. That ability to enter into and share in another's pain certainly did not come from his father or from me.

As she emerged from her traumatized shell, however, we all fell in love with the newest addition to our family. Elisabeth finally had the sister she had always asked for and Francis barely left her side. While most of her relationships were naturally familial, something deeper took root between her and my son.

When Elisabeth would have playdates with her other friends, Amanda and Francis would cart his blocks up to the treehouse in the backyard. They built even bigger, more complex cities on that crude wooden floor than had been constructed on the lush carpet in my son's playroom. I would walk outside to collect them or to take them a snack and I would hear the two of them chattering away, playing make believe.

They cared about the people in their cities – whether Peter had enough grain to bake bread or where Karen might find her long-lost cat. It always seemed to me they were born to take care of others. They found a kindred spirit in one another, choosing to embrace their idiosyncrasies as two peas in the same pod, and they made no effort to mold themselves to everyone else's expectations.

When the trial began and the US Marshal took the girl away, we all felt her absence – but none felt it more keenly than Francis. He never truly recovered, eventually just moving forward one day at a time. New friends at school and Sebastian's unorthodox arrival helped, but they never took her place.

All of us had hoped Amanda would remain with us forever, that the trial's eventual conclusion might mean we could formally adopt her and make her our own. We knew our letters wouldn't be delivered until all the details in her father's case had been settled, but we chose to write anyway. Thirteen years of letters.

Eventually, those letters brought her back to us.

Some would label it a mother's intuition, but I recognized a change in Francis the moment I told him Henry chose that little girl to work for Valois. Something lifted from him – some weight he had carried for more than a decade. After so many years, he still missed her.

And though Francis pushed against his father's ploy of a false engagement to bolster the board's belief in him, I knew it was only a matter of time before his reintroduction to Mary Stuart led to something honest. My heart rejoiced when they walked through the front door of the house in Montauk, with their newly unleashed affection written all over the lines of their faces.

The young couple I see joyfully ambling across the grounds between St. John the Divine and Cathedral House this evening may no longer be the young children they once were – but they will always be my children. They make their own decisions; they have their own home; and they have found their way back to one another, even if it necessitated my meddling at times.

Granted, it was my doing that parted them on more than one occasion, but I prefer not to dwell on such things.

From my perch on the church steps, I watch the merry little party and sigh – recognizing the quick passage of years since the two were little and spent their afternoons in a small wooden building ten feet off the ground.

Snow falls delicately from the overcast skies above, adding a sense of magic to the bride and groom as it sticks to Mary's dark hair and gathers on the black of Francis's suit coat. The young woman is everything I ever hoped my son would find in a wife.

Regardless of how I feel about being caught off my guard, I can't deny the fact that my oldest son has married his other half. I do hope they will remain this happy. Henry and I were happy enough in the beginning, but we made mistakes. Our early bliss quickly faded, making way for bitterness and spite.

I want a different life for my son.

I wish they had more need for me, but I know that they do not – this wedding provides proof enough of that. I scowl to myself a bit at the perceived slight, though I recall seeing a few items from our weekly planning brunches in the ceremony. Surely all of our attempts to put together a fake wedding helped the two of them pull off the unexpected nuptials. Unfortunately, when I throw them the proper society reception required of our social standing in a few months, I will need to rethink some of those details – if only to avoid the tackiness of recycling.

Walking over to Cathedral House, I step through the doors into the warmth of the firelit interior. My husband appears next to me, glass of red wine in hand as yet another peace offering. If I would like to do so, the lawyers have informed me I can proceed with the divorce he set in motion. Henry, however, has been extremely eager to make amends since he at last discovered he had no chance of getting my family's money. It would be a shame to cast aside our years together. He likes my money and I like the power of his company. I think we might be able to prolong our union a little bit longer, at least for the sake of Charles and little Henry.

As for the newlyweds, I must admit my curiosity toward their marrying in haste. The idea crosses my mind that I might have a grandchild in my near future. What a delightful thought! Perhaps they will let us know when they return from the French Alps after the holidays.

The reason matters little, however. I realize this as I bear witness to my son's joy – his face alight as I have never seen him, next to his new bride. She is he equal in every way. He loves her; she loves him. I have anticipated the arrival of this very moment for nearly twenty years.

What more could a mother want?

Author's Notes: And therein concludes this journey into the Harbor universe! Eventually, I do intend to write a third multi-chapter installment covering 114-122 (and I do mean eventually - keep in mind that it took me six months to plan and write this one). Until then, I have several one-shots plotted out (including one set just after this closes, which is next on my to-write list).

Thank you, thank you, and thank you for reading my (many) words, for leaving me lovely reviews, and for letting me (at least a little bit) entertain you with something familiar and foreign all at once. I should be getting around to responding to reviews over the next few days. The urge to simply write has been there this last week (can you tell?), so I went with it. You are a beautiful lot! :)

Disclaimer: Not too much of this is borrowed. A lot of the references are actually from the first few chapters of Harbor, which is almost entirely my own concoction. Reign, regardless, still does not belong to me. At the end, I did borrow some of Catherine's words from 108/Fated. I felt they fit nicely.