I've got money in my pocket
I like the color of my hair

I've got a friend who loves me

Got a house, I've got a car
I've got a good mother
And her voice is what keeps me here

Feet on ground
Heart in hand
Facing forward
Be yourself

I've never wanted anything
No I've
No I've
I've never wanted anything
So bad
So bad...

-- from "Good Mother" by Jann Arden

They say regret is a terrible thing.

It grows like a cancer, undetected at first, then slowly spreading until it poisons your heart and soul. Until it poisons your lungs as well, and the very air you breathe becomes polluted with your sins--all the things you wish you could take back if you just had the chance to do so.

There are many things I regret in my life: making Hermione cry so badly in our first year that she spent an entire afternoon crying her eyes out in the loo; not believing Harry when he swore to me that he hadn't put his name in the Goblet of Fire and acting like an arse for weeks after it happened; waiting so damn long to tell Hermione how I really felt about her.

But there is one regret I have which looms above all the rest. It's the one for which I never got to apologize, the one for which I never got to make up, no matter how badly I had wanted to.

The one I'll have to live with for the rest of my life, that I'll take with me as a reminder never ever to take the people I love for granted again.

Christmas meant the world to Mum.

It was the one time the entire Weasley family could gather in one place at the same time: all seven children, their respective spouses (who'd learnt over the years to acclimate to this crazy household), all fifteen grandchildren, and not to be left out: a menagerie of two cats, four owls, a toad, and a rat. It was a wonder we could fit all under one roof, enchanted house or no--which isn't to say that there was plenty of room, because there most certainly was not. Every single nook and cranny seemed occupied by a body, human or otherwise.

Let it never be said that I don't love my family, because I do, I truly do. But usually by the time Christmas dinner is about to be served, I am about ready to murder one of my brothers (more often than not, one of the twins, or else Percy, if he is boring me yet again with one of his investment tips), and as well, near death from the exhaustion of chasing around all the children, as Daddy/Uncle Ron always seems to end up the designated grown-up playmate (this was never worse than during Caroline's toddler years; she was a whirlwind, that wee one).

Tensions can run high during gatherings of such magnitude, and that Christmas was no exception. Jack and Lawrence, Percy's older son, had gotten into some sort of tiff just after everyone had started to partake of the soup. To be honest, I've long forgotten what it was about (though it might have started as a debate on just how much authority Lawrence--then in his last year at Hogwarts and appointed the head boy--had over the other students, namely my son), but I spent the next twenty minutes shouting myself hoarse trying to get both of them to stop clawing at each other, though Percy, ever the disciplinarian, tried to intervene. By then, however, both were long past 'talking it out,' and as any parent of teenage boys will tell you, nothing short of physically pulling them away from each other will put an end to such a war of wills.

To say that my nerves were frayed when the pudding was finally served was putting it rather mildly. But there is no counting the number of times I've wished in the many weeks, months, years since then that I had had a better grasp of my temper and my tongue.

If I do now, if I've learned to think that extra second before I speak--before I let loose words that can wound and leave a scar--it's a lesson I've learned in the hardest way imaginable.

We opened presents early that year.

Charlie and his family were due back in Romania for Christmas morning, to visit his in-laws, and a portkey would be waiting for them just after midnight. Faced with the prospect of her family being incomplete when presents were exchanged, Mum declared that tradition would be broken this one time, and that we would open our presents on Christmas Eve--at which all the grandchildren celebrated, of course.

Looking back on it now, I wonder how in bloody hell I could have ever been so blind as to not notice the signs. How peaked she had been. How pale, how tired. How much slower she moved, as she sank down on the lumpy armchair by the fire, her eyes watering at the sight of the children tearing their presents open. Perhaps I had been content to simply chalk it up to fatigue from cooking an entire four course meal by herself (she did not allow any of us to help, looking upon it as a personal failure if she were to take any of our many offers to lend a hand), or else being overwhelmed by thirty-one people (and eight animals) all squeezed into her tiny home.

"You haven't opened your present yet, Ron," she said to me.

I had been sitting there, balancing this lumpy, neatly-wrapped present on my lap, hoping that, amidst the chaos of streams of colored paper and ribbon and exploding crackers, she wouldn't notice I hadn't unwrapped it yet.

Because I knew what it would be.

"Go on," she said, "what're you waiting for?"

I forced a smile and slowly tore through the wrapping paper. It was a maroon jumper. Just as I had suspected. The same maroon jumper she had made for me since I was two years old, and probably even before then, though my memory didn't go back that far. The same maroon jumper I'd always hated, but never had the nerve to tell her.

"Uncle Ron!" I heard Luke, Harry and Ginny's son, say, "we match!!" The three-year old proudly held up his maroon jumper--his with an L, where mine had an R--and beamed.

How could I react with anything but a polite smile?

"You don't like it."

I looked up at Mum. "What?"

Her lips had flattened to a thin line, her brow creased deep.

"You obviously don't like it."

I tried to laugh. "What makes you think I don't like it?"

"Oh, don't bother trying to pretend!" she said. "I know that look on your face-"

What look?

"-I know when you're not telling me what you really think!"

She let out a sigh--at the time, I should have recognized it as one of sheer exhaustion, but I was too oblivious to note it--then rose from her chair to snatch the jumper from my hands.

"Wha--hey!!! What d'you think you're doing?"

The rest of the room was still too engrossed in unwrapping presents and oohing and ahhing over them to notice that Mum had lost her cool with me, except of course for Hermione, who nudged me with her elbow and gave me the go talk to her look.

Begrudgingly, I followed Mum into the kitchen, where she was busy ladling more eggnog into glasses.

"D'you want to tell me what that was all about?" I said.

I still remember all too clearly the hurt in her eyes when I had asked that question.

"... never appreciated around here... always doing what's best for the ones I love, but it's never good enough..."

I should have told her she was wrong. I should have told her she was appreciated, that what she did was noticed. And more than good enough. But I didn't. Instead, I did just about the stupidest thing I could have possibly done in that moment: I snapped back at her.

"For God's sake, Mum, it's just a bloody jumper!" I said. "It's not something to get all huffy about and go all to pieces over!! Why do you have to be so bloody dramatic over everything?"

She dropped the ladle back into the bowl and glared at me.

"Oh, just go back in there!"

"Mum-"

"Go!! I can't talk to you right now, not like this!!"

We didn't talk for the rest of the night. At the stroke of midnight, Charlie and his wife, and their daughters, Elizabeth and Ava, shuffled off to their designated portkey, and soon after, the rest of the children scattered away to their respective homes. Mum gave me a rather cool kiss on the cheek as we were getting ready to floo back.

In the days following, I would often touch my hand to that spot, as if doing so would somehow make me feel closer to her.

What a stupid, stupid fool I was.

"But didn't you try to apologize?"

"Hermione, do we have to talk about this now?"

It was two o'clock in the morning on Christmas Day, and all I wanted to do was sleep, but of course, my wife (as usual) had other ideas.

"She looked awfully hurt, Ron."

I groaned into my pillow.

"It's not my fault she's so bloody sensitive about everything," I protested. "And yes, for your information, I did try to apologize." A lie. Or rather, I was remembering it differently than it had actually happened. "But she didn't want to hear it. Practically tossed me out of the kitchen, matter of fact."

Hermione chuckled into my arm, which normally I would have found endearing, but at that moment, I found to be more irritating than anything else.

"Will you let me go back to sleep now?"

"I'm not trying to keep you from sleeping," Hermione said. "I just wanted to give you a chance to get things off your chest, that's all."

"There's nothing to get off my chest. As usual, I did something to set her off. I've been doing it for nearly forty years--it's not news anymore."

"Ron, you're so awful!" she laughed.

"Well, it's true," I said. "Bill and Charlie and Percy--they were perfect. And Fred and George, they could drive her mad, but at least they made her laugh too. And Ginny could do no wrong, of course. I was... I was just the one who messed up all the time."

I stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows from the branches outside our window dance. A few minutes later, I felt the bed move as Hermione turned over to snuggle against me and drape her arm across my stomach.

"She loves you, you know. She really does." When I didn't answer, she gave me a slight squeeze and added, "I can tell."

In the weeks to come, I would find myself saying those words over and over to convince myself that they were indeed true.

I knew something was wrong, because Harry never came to the house this early.

It was five o'clock in the morning, barely three hours after I'd drifted off to sleep, and I heard a knocking at the door. Jack's room was closest to the stairs; he was the first to hear it, and the one to answer it. I heard him calling me minutes later, his face ashen when I came down the steps, my eyes still half-closed.

My first instinct was to scold Harry for coming at the crack of dawn, until I caught sight of Ginny, who was standing beside him, with bloodshot eyes and blotchy skin.

It wasn�t until I�d finished school when I learnt I had the gift of a born seer; looking back, I realized that it had been more than my talent as a creative liar that made me one of Madam Trelawney�s prize students. But never in my life did I wish to be wrong about an intuition as I did at that moment, because I knew straight away from looking at Ginny what they had come here to tell me.

"Ron, you've got to come to the house," Harry said quietly. His voice was scratchy, as if he too had been crying.

I saw Ginny shakily take in air, then Jack look up at me in silence.

That was the last lucid moment I remember.

The funeral was simple and tasteful, exactly the way Mum would have liked it. The guests consisted of mostly family, as our family alone was large enough to consist of quite a number of people. They buzzed about in the background, though I had managed to filter out the noise. My brain couldn't handle it at that time.

Hermione shadowed me the entire time, just as Harry was Ginny's rock. She was quiet, mostly, communicating her love through gestures: a stroke of the arm, a caress of the back, a brushing back of a lock of hair. The children were a blessing. They were well-behaved and solemn, even six-year old Elinor, who was too young--far too young--to have to experience this kind of loss.

At the funeral, Dad had given each of us a surprise. Mum had written letters for us, long before this day, and long before she ever thought of leaving us. She had written them on the day each of us was born. Everyone had read theirs at once, hanging their heads low and running their fingers over the worn parchment. I left mine unopened, unable to bear the thought of opening my wound in front of everyone.

But when it was all over, when the guests had all gone home and we were left all alone was more, I slipped away quietly when no one else was looking and went into the garden.

Mum loved it here. She loved tending the garden, loved it despite of the terror those pesky little gnomes could be. I sat under the shade of that magnificent old walnut tree, and at last I tore open the letter.

Dearest Ron,

It's only been hours since you were born. The mid-wife has just
taken you to your crib to let me get some sleep, but I can't sleep
just now. I had to write this down first, get all of this down.

I don't know how old you'll be when you read this letter; I hope
you will be old and grey when you do, because that will mean I
will have lived a long and full life. I do know that when you read
this, you will know just how much I love you.

People ask me how I'll be able to give six children all the love
and attention they each deserve. In the years to come, you may
feel overlooked at times, or unnoticed. But know that no matter
what, you are not unloved. Love grows stronger with each child,
Ron; it does not grow more diluted. If your father and I are ever
blessed with another child, then our hearts will grow even fuller
and happier.

Wherever you are in life when you read this, I hope this letter
finds you well. I hope you have had the chance to experience
the kind of love I was blessed to find with your father, that I was
blessed to find in our children.

And know this, Ron: that even though the words will probably
never be said as much as they deserve to be said, I love you.

Love always,
Mum

I keep this letter with me at all times. It is tucked in the pocket of whatever cloak I'm wearing, on my nightstand when I go to sleep. And at night when I watch Hermione sleeping beside me, and I think of the children we gave life to, I remember my mother and what she must have felt the day she wrote that letter.

I wish my parting words could have been, "I love you." I wish it could have been bloody anything except what they ultimately were. But five years later, I think I have finally started to make my peace with it. And I know wherever she is, she knows. She knows how I really felt.

She's up in the stars, watching over me and my family.