Disclaimer: The X-Files belongs to Chris Carter and 10-13 Productions, no infringement intended.

Summary: No explanations, no apologies, no goodbyes. Mulder reflects on the loss of his mother.

Author's Notes: Originally written in 2000. I never liked Teena and her selfish death really set me off. Here's the result. Lemme know if you liked it, hated it, thought it was okay, or don't really have an opinion but you read it.

NO MORE I LOVE YOUS

You always think you have time. That's one of life's cruelties - giving you the hope that things will change but in the end taking away your opportunities. I thought I would have the chance to make amends. I was wrong.

I look down at the open grave, the mahogany casket slowly being lowered into it. I asked them to leave the flowers on top instead of removing them. She loved daffodils and I want her to take at least a token of love with her. There were so few things in life that brought a smile to her face but a small bouquet of the bright yellow flowers could always elicit one.

That's how I've regularly imagined it. Me showing up at her door, bouquet in hand, and she'd invite me in with a warm hug, an enormous smile on her face. She'd put the flowers in a vase and place them in a prominent area of the room so that they are the first things you see when you enter. Then we'd go to the couch and sit down, relaxing as we talked about our lives and how stupid we've been to shut each other out. We would both apologize, laughing and crying as we mended years of distance.

I knew that it was a fantasy, that it would never happen as long as Samantha was still missing, but a man can still dream.

The few mourners still left pass by, mumbling their condolences and I nod absently. I can tell that they disapprove of my lack of emotion, consider me a cold-hearted bastard who led my mother to an early grave. I lost my sister and the memories were too much for her to bear, so she ended her life. At least that's what they think.

I'm not crying because I'm am too angry with her to feel anything else. She killed herself because she couldn't handle the guilt of her part in my sister's abduction. More than twenty-five years have gone by that I have shouldered the blame, overwhelming guilt driving me to the edge of despair. All because my parents needed to place the blame anywhere but on themselves. Even on a twelve-year-old boy. How can anyone expect me to feel sorrow at the passing of a woman who has practically dead to me since that November night in 1973. She shut me out, immersing herself in the blissful haze of Valium. She stopped being a mother and became dependent on me. I had to cook dinner, clean the house, do the laundry, and take care of the yard as well as do my homework and go to sports practice. On top of that I had a father who liked to use me as a punching bag when the alcohol saturated his brain and he needed something to take out his frustrations on. I used to think it was because he hated me for losing Sam but now I know the truth. He was afraid that I would see through the lies, that I would discover his part in the disappearance of my sister.

I've always wondered what roles both my parents played in Samantha's abduction and I had hoped that someday my mother would tell me. I confronted her once about it and was answered with a slap in the face. After that I avoided her as much as possible, only calling on holidays for a brief conversation. I was surprised when she called me and was too dumbfounded to do more than answer her questions and promise to call her back. But I forgot. My mind was soon elsewhere, searching for a little girl whose life was in my hands.

And then she was gone. She took her own life, using her illness as an excuse to end it all. She could have called me again; told me what she was going to, given me some sort of explanation. But I guess I gave her too much time to think and she changed her mind about confessing. Fine, I can handle that. My mother has been a selfish woman for a long time and I wouldn't have expected her to change. But the least she could have done was say goodbye.

Despite what people believe, I do love my mother. Once upon a time she read to me at night, made me lemonade and sandwiches on hot summer days, bandaged my scrapes, and was proud of my accomplishments. I still remember her bustling about the kitchen as Sam and I played one game or another in the living room, scolding us gently if we got too rowdy. Eventually Sam would have to go to bed and I was allowed to stay up with my parents, watching game shows in the evening. My father would praise me when I got answers right and my mother would just smile, her hand squeezing mine. Then we would all go up to bed, mom tucking me in and placing a kiss on my forehead. She would whisper, "I love you, Sweet Boy".

I had hoped that someday we would be able to reconcile our differences and I could be her 'Sweet Boy' once again. But I will never have the chance. I thought I had time.

Someone touches my arm, bringing me out of my reverie and I turn to see Scully standing next to me, her expression one of compassion. I try to offer her a smile but it's no use. She reaches up and brushes away a tear that had slipped down my cheek. I didn't even know I had been crying.

The tears are for a woman I lost a long time ago and for the loss of any hope I ever had that I would find her again. Because I will never have a chance to say "I love you".

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End