Rating: G to PG
Category: Mrs. Whitman POV
Summary: Alex's mother thinks about Alex after his death
Spoilers: minor White Room, HTOHL, but mostly CYN
Disclaimer: It really is too bad that they don't belong to me. It is my personal opinion that Roswell would be so much better off if I had control. Think much less death, much more smoochies. Oh well, can't win them all. Anyway, suing is pointless. I own jack besides a fat cat, parakeets, and all the pictures on my walls.
Author's Notes: I wrote this because we have never learned anything about Alex's mom, and I think we should have. For my Roswell Babes: Jeannette, Daria, and Cathy. I stole the idea that Alex had a sister, Anna who died, and the whole sparkly purple ball thing from Roswell Elementary. It actually inspired this whole fic. So, thanks Emily and Kara!

I come and sit in this chair in Alex's room every day, and I hold a small sparkly purple ball in my hands. I keep trying to think what it is I could have done to deserve this. This pain, this suffering, this emptiness inside. I must have done something wrong, done something to justify taking both my babies away from me forever.

I was a good mother. I did everything right from the beginning. I took Lamaze classes, ate right, and I even bought one of those stupid Fit Pregnancy workout videos. I did the exercises religiously every day. All I wanted was for my baby to be perfect. And when Alex was born after 26 hours of labor, and he wasn't breathing, my heart stopped. The thought that I must have forgotten something, that there was something I could have done while pregnant to prevent this, ran through my head endlessly. I watched my baby, my precious little boy struggle to breathe and I prayed to God that if Alex could live, I would never do anything wrong to him again. Because I knew inside that it must have been my fault that my baby wasn't breathing.

When Alex finally breathed and let out a loud, long screech, I cried tears of joy for my baby boy. And I kept my promise and did everything right. I got up at ungodly hours of the night to feed him. I took him in strollers to the park. I sang to him when he cried, although I don't know if that was actually a good thing. I rocked him. When he got older, I taught him how to tie his shoes, and I taught him how to read. I sat with my Alex while he struggled to make the connection between these letters and their meaning. When understanding dawned upon his thin, delicate features, I knew that I had done something right. I loved him with all my heart, because he was my baby.

I found out I was pregnant again when Alex was four years old. Two weeks after I watched my gawky, skinny son beam with pride because he could read. Alex reacted badly because he was the baby, my only baby, and he wanted things to stay that way forever. When we got his old crib down from the attic, my precocious toddler managed to unscrew the joints, and watched with pride as the crib fell apart. When we brought down his old mobile, he claimed he wanted it, and demanded that we hang it over his bed. When his father and I bought infant clothing for his sister, Alex hid it under his bed. I went to my mother for advice as to how to deal with my normally even-tempered son. Her advice was to let Alex's jealously run its course; he would soon change his mind when he met his sister.

Anna came easily. My water broke, and she arrived almost minutes after we got to the hospital. Anna came out screaming and kicking, allowing me none of the fear I experienced with Alex. She was perfect, just like Alex. And my mother was completely correct. When Alex saw his sister, he fell in love immediately. He didn't want to give Anna back to me to nurse, preferring to sit in the rocking chair holding her. He could sit there for hours on end, just watching his baby sister sleep. Alex and Anna were two of the closest siblings I have ever seen. They would spend all their time together. I remember I bought a sparkly purple rubber ball on a whim at the store, and brought it home for Anna. It was her favorite color. Alex and Anna spent the entire afternoon in the driveway, bouncing the tiny ball back and forth, their laughter echoing through the neighborhood. A week later, Anna got sick. After she died, Alex would sit in a chair in his room, holding the sparkly purple ball in his small hands, and look out the window for hours.

After Anna died, I lost myself. I drew inside and formed a shell around me. I know I neglected Alex, and that it hurt him badly. He was my first baby, and I loved him, but I couldn't tell or show him that anymore. I never went to any of The Whits concerts. I never got to know his friends very well. I never noticed that he stopped coming home on time during sophomore year. That he lied to his father. That he hung out a lot with Michael Guerin and Max Evans and his sister all of a sudden. I didn't pry when he disappeared for three days before summer break. I kissed him when he left for Sweden, and I hugged him when he came home. I didn't ask why he went. I didn't ask when he came home at 1 in the morning covered in goo. I didn't wonder why he would get dressed at 3 in the morning and drive places I didn't know. I didn't think why he was always ordering Thai food. I never asked, and that was what hurt him so. I did care, but I couldn't form the words to tell him. It was just so much easier to let him go. I made Alex feel like I didn't even know he was there sometimes. That's what I did wrong. That is why I deserve this unending pain. And I am only realizing this now that it is too late and I have lost my baby, now that I have lost Alex too.

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