Trigger Warning: Recollection of sexual abuse and tragedy will be briefly mentioned. I didn't go into details. The chapter starts off horrible but the ending will make up for the grossness.

Eighteen

Sam

I laugh out loud when I see Mercedes in my jersey and a pair of sneakers. She has on yoga pants and her hair is in a high ponytail. She walks past me with her head held high.

"Game face," she growls as she goes outside.

I pick up the baseball bat, and a bag with balls and gloves and follow her. Jessica walks behind me, and I notice my dad following us. He stands uncertain by the opened door, and I stop. Without looking behind me, I hold out my hand to him. After a few seconds, he takes it and steps outside for the second time today.

I encourage him to pick up Jessica. He seems to relax now that he's holding her.

I throw the ball and Mercedes hits it easily out to the end of the yard. I pitched to her three more times, and she is an excellent batter hitting the ball every time..

"She's really good, Son," my dad says, clapping for Mercedes. Jessica copies him and claps too.

"Mama," she yells.

"Really, Dad and Jessie?" I ask and then say. "Watch this I say as I throw the ball in the air and hit it with the bat over the fence." I hit the ball with ease over the fence.

"Dada!" Jessica jumps in excitement. "Grrr! Ame face!"

"Let me pitch it to you Evans," Mercedes says as she retrieves another ball from the bag. "It's time to get humiliated in front of your father and daughter." She does a modified version of the Sammyfan dance, but she stops after the first thrust. "Sorry, I don't see any Sammyfans here." She puts her palm over her forehead and pretends to look around.

"Oh, boy," my dad says, giggling like a child.

"Let's go," I say, and she throws the ball at me. It's a sneaky curve ball, and I wasn't expecting this from her, but I do manage to hit it though but it didn't go past what would be considered centerfield.

She grimaces and growls, but I growl louder.

"Dada!" Jessica says. "Grrr."

Out of all our pitching and hitting, I was able to hit the ball the farthest the most and she finally conceded that I was the better batter.

"Next time, play with the other little girls, not a professional. Maybe Jessica will want to play with you. You might be able to beat her."

She starts to walk away, then she turns, runs to me, and jumps on me like a panther. I barely have time to wrap my arms around her to keep us both from falling. She wraps her hands around my neck, and I laugh so hard at the surprise onslaught, I lose my balance, and we fall on the grass. She straddles me.

"I'm going to beat you one way or the other," she hisses. Jessica, who at some point my father set down, starts to giggle. She jumps on me too and starts to tickle me. "I know how to do it and not get caught."

I finally manage to grab Mercedes's wrists and pull her hands off me. I turn us over slowly and both she and Jessica fall on their backs without pain. Jessica laughs as if it's the best thing on earth.

This time, it's me who straddles Mercedes and holds her hands above her head.

"Repeat after me: 'I'm a loser'."

She shakes her head and refuses to open her mouth.

"Say it," I hold both her wrists with one hand and tickle her with the other. She wiggles but can't escape. "Say it." I tickle her more.

"Sam, stop, you are going to make me pee my pants." When I don't stop, she finally says, "You won."

"No. Say 'I'm a loser.'"

"Never!"

"Say it!"

"Sam's a loser," she says instead.

"Sam, get off my daughter," my dad says, but I can hear the humor in his voice. "You're too big for that. And don't you roll over onto my grandbaby." He walks over and picks up Jessica. "Get off." I roll off and land on my back. I look up at the clear blue sky on a warm October afternoon and can't remember a time before today when I had fun with my dad.

He must have too much of our antics because he walks away and goes inside with Jessica. Once they're gone, Mercedes straddles me, and I grab her hips to steady her. She looks down at me, and she has a bead of sweat on her forehead. Her hair is a mess now and halfway out of the ponytail. She's still breathing heavily and some of her lipstick is rubbed off, but she's still the prettiest thing I've ever seen. At this moment, she's all I see, and something inside of me shifts as I think of all she's given me. A home and a family. She's never judged me for the crappy family she married into like she did my past exploits. She grins, and I wait to hear what she's going to say. I hold my breath and wonder if this is the moment where all of my work has paid off and she whispers those three little words.

"I'm going to beat your ass next time," she threatens.

Then she grabs my hair and pulls it before jumping off me. She runs away before I can get her, but I admire the view.

While Mercedes reads Jessica her bedtime story, I walk down the hall to my father's room. I don't remember the last time I sought him out or the last time I went into his room. I stopped doing it when we were in the trailer, and I was twelve years old.

When he moved here, I had the trailer dismantled, and other than when I did the walkthrough of this house after construction, I've never stepped foot in his bedroom.

All the memories I have of his old bedroom are negative. He piled it with so much crap, it was hard to get the door open. After a while, he gave up and would sleep on the couch. He was on that thing day and night, and I only wish I could have set it on fire myself when it came time to move.

It's strange to see him outside, especially three times in two days. I didn't believe him when he said he wanted to go out to dinner and that he had made a reservation, but I was wrong because he did both things.

Dr. St. Pierre met us here and rode in my car with us. The reservation was much to early to eat dinner, but I guess he wanted to have it when there would not be that many people around. By the time I parked and got inside, they were seated in a private room.

Dr. St. Pierre sat next to my dad and every few minutes, he would remind him to do his breathing exercises.

"You're here with me and your family," he had whispered. "Breathe like we practiced."

"How much do you think this is costing me?" I had whispered to Mercedes who elbowed me in the ribs. "I guess I'm buying his dinner too."

"You most definitely are, so shut the hell up." She looked at me and widened her eyes as if she were daring me to contradict her. Her being bossy turned me on. Who am I kidding? Her breathing turned me on.

"What are you having, Dad?" I asked a few minutes later to get my mind and my eyes off of my sexy wife.

Surprisingly the dinner goes off without a hitch, even though I don't remember a single time before today that I had dinner out with my father. Dad ordered chicken, steak, and shrimp, but he only eats half. He would normally eat twice that much when I make it at home. He sweats through his clothes despite the cool room, but Mercedes keeps the conversation going, and I focused on my own dinner and my daughter and decide to let the doctor handle my father. Lord knows I'm paying him enough. He should do his job.

By the time dinner is over and we get back to the car, I can tell my dad is relieved. Instead of playing with Jessica like I expect when we get back to the house, he goes to his room and hasn't come out. Of course, Mercedes insists I go check on him.

I stand outside his door for a full five minutes. I know he's in there because not only can I hear the television. After debating on whether I should leave, I knock on the door. When he doesn't respond, I turn the knob and go inside. He's starting to sit up on the bed when I walk in.

"Oh, Sammy I was coming to open the door."

I look around the room, and I'm shocked to see that it's free of clutter. Then I remember I gave the housekeeper explicit orders to clean his room twice a week and to throw away any crap he has in here.

He groans as he gets up. It's almost as if he's twenty years older than he is.

"Are you okay?" I ask as I look down at him. He nods without making eye contact with me. "You don't have to push yourself." I almost want to bite my tongue at the absurdity of my statement. He's been outside a few times in twenty years. That's not pushing himself. I don't say it though.

"I can't live like this anymore, Sam. I can't be a prisoner."

"So, don't be one. You're the one who put yourself in this prison, Dad." I'm not in the mood to listen to him feeling sorry for himself, so I get ready to leave. I did what Mercedes asked. I checked on him, and he's fine.

"You think I did this to myself on purpose?" I pause mid-step at his question before I turn to face him. He's looking up at me now with a mixture of pain and anger on his face. I always try to avoid talking about his issues at all costs, but I will send the occasional jab. He never responds, so this question takes me by surprise.

"Who else? I don't remember anyone locking you in the house and preventing you from leaving. I remember begging you to come out. Come to one of my games. Do something with me, but you wouldn't. Hell, you wouldn't even do anything with me inside the house."

"I couldn't," he corrects. "You have no idea what I've been through."

"But you know what I've been through. You should since you're the one who put me through it," I counter. "Don't play with the woe is me game with me. I can match you screwed up childhood for screwed up childhood."

His face turns ashen, but I won't take back my words.

"You didn't have horrible things happen to you like they did to me," he says.

"And how would you know? You were out of it drinking beer and watching TV from the time I was a kid until I moved out. You didn't care what I did as long as I took care of you. You—"

"Stop." He holds up his hands and sighs. "Stop. I know. I know. I'm a crappy father, but I swear, I'm trying. Things are going to be different now. The therapy is working, and I want—"

"Why? Why now? Why not fifteen years ago? Hell, why not five years ago? If you're doing this for me, don't because I don't need it anymore. I made it, and it was all despite you instead of because of you."

"Does it make you feel better to hurt me?" he asks resignedly.

"Well, the truth hurts," is all I say.

"I know I can never make it up to you," he says.

"I don't need you to do anything for me. You're the one who needs me, not the other way around."

"You needed a parent and—"

"Oh my God! I know. You couldn't. Boo freaking hoo. You are not the first person in the history of the world to have something happen to them. It was easier for you to just give up than to fight for me. If you're looking for sympathy, I'm fresh out, Dad."

His face crumbles, and I wait for him to start sobbing, but he doesn't. He stands again and reaches for my hand, but I pull away before he can make contact.

"I'm not looking for anything other than a little understanding."

"I'll give you some understanding as soon as you understand what you took from me."

"You don't think I know?" He raises his voice. He's never raised his voice at me. Never. Before his complete breakdown, he never once yelled at me. "You don't think that's all I've talked about with Dr. St. Pierre? You don't think the guilt isn't crippling?"

I look at him before I do a slow clap. "I believe you know. I just don't think you care. If you cared, you would have gotten off your ass years ago, but you didn't. You surrounded yourself in trash and clutter and left me to fend for myself and for you."

Right on cue, his tears start, and I instantly feel bad. Just like I did that day I told him off before I went away to college. That anger lasted the longest. It lasted for days after I left. He stood at the door of that filthy trailer and cried. I didn't look back when I got into my coach's car. Dad didn't even thank him for doing his job in taking me to school.

He angrily swipes his tears and glares up at me.

"I have been through hell and back!" he yells. "When I was a kid I was sexually assaulted repeatedly that's how I met your mama. She was molested, too. We met in a counseling group. We fell in love and decided to run away together and be married and be somewhere safe from all harm. Your mother's father disowned her because she married me. He didn't believe that his brother was molesting his daughter. We were poor and had nothing, but we tried to make it work. I worked hard and a year later when we had saved enough money, she got pregnant with you. And when she went into labor, I was at work and I made the stupid mistake of calling her mother, so she could get Mary to the hospital."

"It's okay dad, I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me anything else, if you don't want to." My poor dad. My poor mother.

"I gotta tell you it all. Your grandmother had become an alcoholic to deal with having to kick out her daughter and not be a mother to her own child. I didn't know but she had been drinking when I called, and when she came and got your momma to take her to the hospital, she was drunk. Mary was in so much pain, she didn't know, so she left with her. They got in an accident. Your grandmother died instantly, and the wreck, the labor, all of it was too much for Mary. She died, but the EMTs who came to the scene were able to rescue you. You were a fighter even then. You looked so much like your mom. I cried and cried and couldn't take care of you because my family was not a family I wanted around you. Your mother's father blamed me for losing both his wife and only child, so he definitely didn't want to help me out with your care."

Dad takes a break before continuing, "So, April, your mother's best friend, agreed to marry me, and she left me because I refused to have any more children. When I told her about my childhood to try to convince her to stay with me and be happy with raising you as her own, she went and blabbed her mouth at the bar to all and sundry about how I was molested and whenever I went to town people openly laughed at me or talked about me behind my back. When I confronted her, she finally left, and I stayed home and medicated with alcohol because I couldn't bear to show my face in town anymore. I was too embarrassed and too depressed. Alcohol is a depressant, so I stayed in the cycle of shame, hurt, and depression for most of my life. I wanted to kill myself, but I couldn't because of you. Everybody I loved or touch, left me. I convinced myself that I was cursed. I tried not to show you love and affection because I was afraid of you leaving me too. But, you were so like your momma. Such a loving and giving person. I couldn't help but love you. I just couldn't show it because I was too sick in the head and too drunk."

"Being a victim of sexual assault is something that is painful for me to remember and talk about, and that is why it has taken me so long to improve with therapy."

"Who?" is all I can think of to say. "Who did it? Because after I rip them apart with my bare screwing hands, I'm going to have them arrested and prosecuted. Whoever did this is going to spend the rest of his miserable life in a cell, and that's if I don't kill him first." When all he does is cry, I yell, "Tell me who in the hell did this to and to my momma?"

"It doesn't matter. Both of them are dead," he says through his tears. "They died a long time ago."

"Was it grandpa who abused you it's that why your uncle raised you?" I ask with my eyes wide.

"No," he says quickly. "He was mean, but he would never do that. It was a family friend. I don't want to say any more about that to you. That's for me and Dr. St. Pierre to figure out, but that's been my problem. There was so much shame and hurt and anger. It's crippled me for years along with abandonment issues. I didn't know how to process it all. I couldn't deal with it. I wouldn't even admit it to myself, so I collapsed. I stopped functioning. And you're right. I am a crappy father. I'm a weak man, and you've suffered because I couldn't get my crap together. I'm so sorry."

I try to pull my hands away from him, so I can punch something, but he won't let me go. I don't know if it's because he knows my intentions or if this is the longest time I've let him touch me.

Parts of my childhood flash through my mind, and I wonder how I could have missed the signs, but I was so angry. All I thought about was how his actions affected me, not the cause of why he is the way he is. When I got older and went to therapy I never wanted to discuss the why or forgive my dad. Even when I forced him into therapy, I was looking for a magic pill to cure him. So, I guess in a way I failed him, too.

"Dad," I whisper. "I'm so sorry." I tug at his hands, and I wrap my arms around him like he's a child. He lets out a loud sob and cries into my chest. I hold him and let him have this moment. I hope it's cathartic and brings him a sense of peace. It's not until I feel my own tears streaming down my face that I realize I'm crying just as hard as him.

I let all the pain and unforgiveness that I held in my heart against him go. I cry for the scared boy and girl my mom and dad must have been. I cry for the broken man who's made himself a prisoner for over a decade because he could no longer face what he had been through. I cry for myself and for dealing with the consequences of what happened to my parents. We both stand there and cry for what could have been hours.

"I promise I'm going to get better so I can come to Cleveland and visit and go to one of your games as long as I seated in one of those privacy areas for family." He sounds hopeful and lets out a laugh.

"I'd really like that," I say, meaning it. "The games will be there when you're ready and I can have you seated somewhere with just Jessica and Mercedes," I say, and he sighs with relief. He steps out of my arms and gestures for me to sit on the bed. When I do, he sits next to me and takes my hands again.

"I'm proud of you, Sam," he says. "You've always been such a good boy and an even better son. I would have died a long time ago without you. Thank you for not turning your back on me because I know it's what I deserve, but I've always needed you. You're the best thing I've ever done."

"Dad," I say. I manage to pull my hands from his and throw an arm across his shoulders. He rests his head on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry. I haven't been that good. I've been awful to you, but if I had known—"

"I didn't want you to know. Ever. I would have spent the rest of my life without you knowing, but Dr. St. Pierre said telling you would help me. And you've been so angry with me. Don't apologize to me for anything, Sam. Like I said, you're the best son I could have asked for. I love and have always loved you a lot, Son."

Mercedes

Dwight lies on the couch in the living room on his back, snoring as loud as I imagine a drunken sailor snores. Jessica is in the sleep and play that Sam brought down from upstairs, fast asleep and oblivious to her grandfather's snoring. While they sleep, I prepare snacks and a drink for Sam. After he explained, with Dwight's permission, what they talked about, it took me a good hour to get myself under control.

While he got Jessica ready for bed, I filled the tub with bubble bath for him and ordered him in. I place everything on a tray and go upstairs. After putting the tray on the nightstand, I go into the bathroom and cackle at the sight before me.

"You had this house built so why didn't you pick out bigger tubs?" I ask. He's sitting there with his long arms wrapped around his knees looking completely ridiculous.

"I never took a bath here before today, and I'm never taking one here again." I leave him and return with two champagne flutes.

I hand him one and sit on the edge of the tub.

"What are we celebrating?" he asks.

"Dwight's bravery and your reconciliation with your father." I tap my glass to his. He sits back and some of the water splashes me.

"Say you were wrong about me," he orders.

"I was not wrong. You were a whore, but I will concede that I didn't know everything about you."

"Say you're sorry," he says.

"I am only sorry for accusing of still being a community dick after you had Jessica." I gave him some serious side eye and he responds by pulling me into the tub. "You jerk!" I yell. His strong arms go around me, and we are smushed together in the small tub. I give up all attempts to fight him off. I don't even care about my hair getting wet as I sigh and rest my head on his wet chest.

"I am just trying to take my mind off of everything," He admits.

"Come on," I say, giving him my hand. "Let me take care of you tonight." We got out of the bathtub and I dry myself off first then I take off my towel and dry his body with it. Once he's dry, he gets in the bed, and I prepare a fruit bowl for him.

"Thank you for doing this and putting up with me," he says holding a cherry in the air. "I would really love to eat one of those chicken salad sandwiches you make." He has an epiphany, "I'm turning into my old man."

"I'll go and make you a couple of them." I ignore the statement about Dwight and bend down to kiss him. After putting on my robe, I leave the room to go make the sandwiches. Other than asking me to help raise Jessica, this is only the second time he's asked anything specifically of me. I make three sandwiches and take them upstairs.

He eats two in the time it takes me to eat half of mine. Once he's done, he eats the other half of my sandwich.

After eating, Sam pulls me into his arms again. He kisses me a couple of times and instead of making love, he turns on the television and we begin watching whatever is only the channel not paying much attention to it, and the next time I look over at him, Sam has fallen asleep.

Mercedes

Because of Tina's recovery from giving birth to twins, our wedding reception was postponed until she felt she was ready to be out in society with the loves of her life. So, this is why our reception is being held six months after our wedding. I can't really complain because I get to be around the babies that I share the godparents role with my husband and the Puckermans. My goddaughter is in my arms right now. I have been humming to her and bouncing her in my arms and she has fallen asleep. I reluctantly hand her back to Tina, who hands her to the nanny to put Michaela to bed. After kissing her daughter who goes my Kayla and son, Michael the third, who we have nicknamed Trey, she takes my hand and we walk out of the nursery.

"You look great," I say to my friend, who has lost most of her weight after giving birth to twins.

"Spanx works miracles I tell you. But you my friend are absolutely gorgeous. Aren't you glad I had a hair and makeup team come and make us glamorous?" She pulls me into the master bedroom of her home. She fluffs my hair and looks down at my dress. It's a simple purple wrap around dress.

"I can't believe you're throwing us this reception two month after you gave birth to twins. You know you don't have to—"

"I have a staff and Marley, so planning this really didn't take much effort at all," she says. "How are things? We haven't talked much because my sleep schedule has to match that of the twins. Do I need to beat Sam's ass?"

"No you don't. Things are pretty good. We'll see how things go when he starts training camp and traveling to games in a couple of months."

"And how's Granny doing?"

"Not much of a change. I still visit her weekly. Sam comes with me at least twice a week. Granny seems to do better when Jessica is with us." I swallow the lump in my throat at the thought of the sweet strong woman who raised me who is now only a shell of her former self.

There's a soft knock on the bedroom door and Marley steps in. She doesn't close the door but waves her hand and someone holding a long garment bag follows her. My mom follows behind her holding Jessica.

"Why are you all in here and with that garment bag?" I ask.

"Mercedes Evans, you are going to get married today in front of your family and friends just like you deserve," Tina announces.

My mom says, "I know that's right." As everybody gets busy preparing me to me a bride. I am so shocked, that I put up little resistance as I am transformed into the bride that I always dreamed I be when I got married. Tina and my mom knew me so well and the gown was exactly what I would have chosen as well as the shoes.