I never knew where you were buried, you know.

Dad always kept your existence tight-lipped. Pushed away, deep in his heart and memories, under heavy lock and key. I never knew you all that well. How could I? You were dead. Mom never allowed herself to talk about you with him in the room, or in the house. My whole life, you were always treated as dad's dirty little secret. I never really treated you as one, I don't think. Mom and dad always called me a smart cookie, so I'd like to think I am. I never hated you, Peter. I still don't. You were the brother I never met, of course.

It was honestly an accident when I discovered proof of your existence. I was young. At the time, I always thought dad was just a bit unhinged. A man who kept to himself, and tinkered away at whatever triggered his fancy. That aspect was true, but I never actually stopped to consider the other side of him in such a depth. He was a loving father, and firm businessman. I've always subconsciously avoided his darker, more bizarre tendencies.

Coming back from Uncle B's place on a fresh high of learning generic mutation was a scary contrast to seeing dad having an episode in the middle of the living room – especially with people around him. Uncle B was quick to break off the fight between dad and Mr. Rogers. I never got to know Mr. Rogers, not with how toxic he and my dad always were to each other. Dad showed nothing but distain for the man, but I never bothered to ask why. The anger unfolding was enough of an answer.

There were some broken picture frames, and glass had gone everywhere. There was a shattered vase in the mess, too. Dad wasn't as feeble as he was at the time. I never paid close attention, but there were a shuffle of colours passing by my vision before I saw the fight take a turn for the worse. Uncle B was going green, but the lights were knocked out of him when dad quickly learned that he couldn't take his rage out on Steve. Everyone was screaming at that point.

Uncle B was out cold on the floor, and mom was trying her best to keep dad from attacking Mr. Rogers. On the other hand, Auntie Nat and Uncle Bucky were attempting to put a large enough distance between the two. Mr. Rogers was just sad.

"What's going on?"

I didn't know they never noticed me, honestly. It should have been a given, since Uncle B was there. It was his day to take care of me. Mom ran over to me, and was covering my eyes with her chest and attempted to block the sounds with her hands over my ears. It could never have been enough, though. It never was. Not for what I ended up hearing that day.

"Get the fuck out of my house! Get out! Out of my house- out of my tower! It's your fucking fault!!"

He screamed, over and over again. It was at the point of growing into hysterics, with the mess they were creating. I didn't mean to see it – honest. I blame it on the whole 'wrong place, wrong time' mentality. They were still arguing. I remember mom holding onto me tighter, crushing my back into her stomach.

"Tony, please! It was-"

"He's dead! Your pathetic authority caused my son his fucking life!"

Mom pulled me out of the room after that. The fighting was still bad, I could hear still here them. I had so many questions that day, I guarantee I bear even your record of running questions a minute. She answered as many as she could, but she insisted that some were to only ever be asked from dad. Despite his fragile mind on the topic, mom held no doubt in her mind that I couldn't ask him. It was difficult, at first. For a kid of my age at the time, the idea of asking dad a question that could possible lead to another one of his emotional bouts was not something I wanted to witness nor endure up close.

At the time, again, I only heard whispers. I never knew you enough to care. You were just some name on my parents' lips, a memory in their minds. I loved dad, and I still do. To think you're death rattled him that badly, he must've loved you a ton. I'm not jealous of you, never was, if you ever wondered. You are my brother, dead or alive.

I asked him, who you were. It was maybe a week after the disaster with Mr. Rogers. Dad was okay, doing his usual thing. I caught him in the living room, allaying on the couch while watching a rerun of Star Wars. He seemed quite happy, at the moment. I felt bad if I was going to ruin it.

He didn't respond, not at first. He looked off into the distance, like he was never even there when I asked. It took time, but he did show me a picture of you. From the wallet. You were kind of cute for your age, you know. Chubby cheeks, a giddy persona, and a floof of brown hair on your head. I asked him if the wallet was his, or yours. He didn't say anything. I could see it in his eyes that he tried, but when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out. He took the wallet back, and I thought that was the last time I would ever see a picture of you. Dad was adamant on removing your existence from the online world. Your old social media accounts were terminated, and any news article or interview you ever gave was pulled from the internet.

The physical remains had stayed, though. Your Polaroids are still somewhere at the house, tucked away in a box. Your medals and awards from high school are hung proudly in a display case in the atrium. Yeah, I go to your school. I'm eighteen now – the our parents really took their time.

It's a bit weird, you passed away nearly two decades ago. The vice principal, Mr. Leeds, he cried when he found out I was going to attend. It took until the first day of 11th grade when he finally told me who Peter was to him. I really did have aunts and uncles everywhere.

Now that I'm older, way older, my first interactions with Uncle Happy are just benign now. I should be offended. You're relationship with all these other people really had me wrapping so much in my brain. When I eventually found out about your connection to Uncle Happy, he was so relieved to not be called Uncle Harold anymore, it apparently scared him. Poor man.

Dad is still dad. He has his moments, but he's been getting better. For us, for me, for you. He still can't say your name, but he's gotten better at bringing you up. He even managed to tell me had a crush on Thor, could you believe that? He's much happier now. Not that he wasn't happy before, but it always felt a bit forced when around other people. It still is, but it's different now. Mom doesn't have to worry about his so much anymore. His episodes have become less violent, and a lot more manageable. He only cried twice this week! A new record!

I love you Petey. We all do. In your whole entirety. Peter Parker. I just wanted to let you know that it's alright. After twenty years of constant battles with himself, I think he's finally going to be okay. He's going to be the one driving us to your spot, after all.

Sincerely,
Your Loving Sister,

Morgan H. Stark

"Maguna! Whatcha got over there, squirt?"

"A letter."

"Oh? To who? Didn't think you youngsters did letters nowadays."

"It's for Petey."