A/N: This was a difficult chapter to finish. Sam is a lot in this story and it all stems from his childhood filled with poverty and neglect. It's too emotionally draining for me to fully depict his childhood memories, but I will try my best to include the facts that contributed in him being the hot mess that he is. The way he treats his father now had to be explained. Please forgive all my mistakes. And thanks brave souls for soldiering on and finishing this story with me...As always I own nothing but procrastination and ADD.

Twelve

Mercedes

"My boy is a gifted musician as well as well."

Sam gives his father a look I can't interpret. It's not the first time he's looked at him this way in the past hour while Dwight's told me all about his son's accomplishments in school.

"He was Danny in his school's version of "Grease."," Dwight says, clearly proud of his son.

"Your hair is too light to have played Danny. You are more of Sandy." I tell Sam, who just smirks at me and gets up to take a sleeping Jessica to bed. He comes back a few minutes later with the baby monitor in his hands.

"All the members of the glee club were in the musical," he says, but he's not smiling. "We were a tight group and the parents were very supportive. Most of the parents that is." He eyes his father again who suddenly becomes stoic.

"Uh, do you have any video of Sam's so-called acting, singing, and dancing skills?" I ask Dwight, who shakes his head. "I don't believe that either."

"I don't," he says sadly. "I asked Sam to get them from the school or another parent, but—" He catches himself and says, "Well, never mind. Sam sing that "Summer Lovin" song you were always rehearsing in the shower."

"Yes, please Sam sing it. I will sing Sandy's part." I goad him to see if he would do it.

"I can do the all the other parts," Sam's dad said.

But Sam refuses.

Dwight starts to frown and then he becomes happy again. "Now, where are those sandwiches? I'm starving." He pats his protruding belly. "I love it when Sam visits because he cooks so much better than me or my housekeeper." Dwight stands and gets dishes from the cabinet. He sets the table while I cut the sandwiches. After he hands me a serving platter, I place them and he takes it to the table. He gets water bottles for everyone, and we sit down to eat.

After a few minutes of eating in silence, Dwight says, "You'll have to teach me how to make these before you leave." He puts his hand on mine and smiles warmly at me. "And you don't have to wait for Sam to come here for you to visit. You and my grandbaby can come back any time." He picks my hand up and kisses it. Sam scowls but he doesn't say anything. He grabs another sandwich and eats half in one bite. "You did a good job picking her, Sam. She's beautiful inside and out and can cook."

I flush at the compliment, and Sam snorts. "Don't be fooled by her charm, she can be mean when she wants to be. Maybe not mean more of a judgmental bully," He winks at me when he says and smiles, and I know he is just trying to goad me to say something sassy back in front of us father.

"I don't believe that she can be anything but a sweetheart," Dwight says. "You and all that foolishness with them girls. That's all that was. I'm the one who suggested he find someone serious. I told him every child needs a mom, especially a girl. What does he know about being a woman?"

Sam huffs and takes another big bite of food. I have the feeling that he's eating partly to keep himself from responding to his father's words. Dwight talks nonstop for the next half hour, all about Sam. He tells stories of him as a baby and brings out pictures to show me.

Sam doesn't say a word, and when lunch is done, he starts to clear the table while his father talks to me some more. He only stops when Jessica starts to fuss through the baby monitor. He goes to get her, declaring that he'll feed her lunch while we clean up.

"Cleaning was never his strong point," Sam says through clenched teeth. I take the plate he's holding tightly in his hand. I'm afraid it's going to break from his tight grip. "We practically lived like hoarders until I was old enough to start cleaning." I look around ready to point out how clean it is. "The housekeeper comes here weekly. She's been told to keep it clean and clear, and if he gives her a problem, she's to call me. I have to make all decisions here because I can't count on him to do anything right."

"Why don't you sit down and let me handle cleaning up?" I tell him. "You know it's not his fault, Sam. You have to realize he has some mental health issues."

"You think?" he snaps. "And this act he's putting on is just that. An act. How many of my school events and games do you think he went to? How many parent-teacher conferences do you think he attended? None. And he wants to sit here and act like a proud parent. Whatever I accomplished, it was not with his help. If it was up to him, we'd both be living in that crappy trailer he filled with trash."

"But he's sick, Sam," I say softly. I put the plate I'm holding in the dishwasher and walk to my husband. I put a hand on his shoulder.

"Well, I didn't know he was when I was a kid," he confesses. "I get it now, which is why I put up with him. I wish he wouldn't do this though. Pretend to be the proud and doting father. I don't need it. Not only that, I don't like it."

"It's not an act. He is proud of you, and I think he's trying to show you now because he couldn't before. It is probably one of his goals in therapy." I sit next to him and take his hands. "Let me ask you this, and I want you to answer honestly. What if he didn't have these issues? Do you think he would have come to your events?"

He looks away as he ponders my question. I hold my breath and wait. He looks back at me and says, "What does it matter?"

"Really, Sam? What does it matter?"

"Yeah. What does it matter what he would have done if he could? What matters is what he did, which was nothing. I'm not going to create a new narrative of what-ifs because that does not change the facts at all. The facts are that I never had anyone in the audience to come out and show me support or anybody at home to parent me. I grew up without love."

His big hands feel warm in mine, and I give them a squeeze. He squeezes back but he doesn't give me his usual lopsided mischievous grin. He remains unsmiling, and I have the feeling that he's holding his breath to see what I have to say next.

I remember one of my mother's complaints about my father was that he never listened to her. Not only that, but he would also minimize her feelings or things that she was going through or had gone through. She said over time, she became resentful of him when all she was looking for was validation that her feelings were hers and they were appropriate, whether he could identify with them or not, especially when she was suffering from depression after her father had died. My dad thought she could just get over it. And it wasn't okay for people in the black community to need help or therapy. My dad thought her going to see someone or even being on medicine would reflect badly on him and his dentistry.

"You're right," I concede. "It won't change anything about the past or what you went through. I didn't experience it, so I'm not going to tell you how you should feel. However, your feelings are valid."

He exhales and says, "Thank you for saying that."

"But," I add as I squeeze his hand again, "sometimes the people in our lives don't measure up to what we want them to be for whatever reason. Sometimes those reasons are valid, and sometimes they're not. What helps is whether or not the people who hurt us acknowledge how they failed us. Do they feel bad? Do they have regrets? Are they sorry? If even one of those answers is yes, it can go a long way in healing you." I point to his chest, and when I notice he is still frowning, I reach up and trace his lips with my fingers. This causes him to smile.

Sam

The next day I decide to take Mercedes on a tour of my hometown, and I save my old high school for the last stop. "This is my old high school. When we come back in the Fall, I will give you the inside tour. Unfortunately, my head coach died a couple of years ago, so you won't get to meet him." The words get stuck in my throat. Finn Hudson was the first male adult in my life who cared about my future. I was one step away from being an underaged stripper at Stallionz to pay for the things I needed. Instead Finn helped me to get my first job at his step dad's garage during the summer. He also provided transportation for me when I needed, and when it was time for me to go to college, he and his wife, Quinn drove me to college. It was the first time I ever left Tennessee.

A few times, he bought me a bus ticket to come home for some of the holidays. He helped me when I was drafted by the Guardians just like he was with me on my signing day to attend college on a baseball scholarship. I tell Mercedes everything about that day including how my dad cried when I left.

A few years ago

"Don't leave me, Sammy, you are all I have," my dad cries on my shoulder.

I can't believe this. My dad was trying to stop me from going to college by using guilt, like I could feel guilty about leaving the nasty filled to the brim trailer. I gently push him away and throw the few things that I own in an old suitcase. I make a mental note to tape over the tears.

"I know it's awful here, and I'm a bad father, but—" He stops talking long enough to wipe the tears from his eyes.

I didn't even listen to anything else he had to say. I can't tell him how happy that I'm leaving and never coming back. He'll find that out soon enough. There's nothing for me here but bad memories, tragedy, and misery. I don't want anything more to do with him, this town, or any of the people in it other than Finn Hudson and his wife.

Getting the baseball scholarship is my ticket out, and I'm not going to give it up. It might not lead to a career as a professional baseball player, but I will be able to leave the stress and the nightmares of having to live here with my father.

Maybe this scholarship will only allow me to play in college, and that's fine. I have a fall back plan. If my time playing baseball ends in four years, then I can have a degree to be a math or science teacher and baseball coach at a high school. Whether it's numbers or the sciences, I can easily catch on. Because of my dyslexia I have an awesome auditory memory. I never forget anything that I hear. Coach Hudson made sure that I will receive services from the Student Disability Resource Center and will have a notetaker and be able to have all my textbooks recorded for me to hear as well as receive services to help me read and write better. It is going to take a lot of work, but I am not coming back to Tennessee to serve as my father's caregiver.

"Sammy," my father says. He tries to grab the suitcase. "Please don't—"

"Don't what?" I snap. "Don't leave? You want me to stay in this crappy trailer with you for the rest of my life?" I yank the suitcase out of his hands. "Why? So I can continue to take care of you while you fall apart? Why do you think I want to stay here sleeping in this small bed that I have had since I was nine years old with these old sheets that are filled with holes."

In a fit of frustration, I kick my old suitcase across the room. It hits the wall and some of the clothes inside spill out. Everything I own is used and from the Goodwill. There's nothing new to take to college. There's only shame and embarrassment. That's all that's ever been here for me, and looking at my father now, a broken man, crying like a child who is being separated from his mommy, I'm glad he won't be able to come and drop me off because my life here is a shameful secret that I'll never let out.

"No." He licks his dry lips. "I want —"

"I don't care what you want. Hasn't it been enough that I've had to take care of you for the past nine years?" I snap, interrupting him. "Now you want to make me feel guilty for leaving? Any other parent would be happy for me. Any other parent would be proud and eager for me to leave this place and have a chance at a decent life, but not you." He takes a step back when I point a finger at him. A man so mentally ill that he didn't even tell me that the woman who I thought was my mother was my stepmom. She had to tell me this when she told me her son, Stevie, was not my brother. That is when he finally admitted that my mom died during childbirth, and I never knew her. Her family disowned her for getting pregnant with me at sixteen and agreeing to keep the baby. Because she didn't have insurance, she gave birth to me in this very trailer, and when the ambulance arrived she had died right before we made it to the hospital. And my dad had never been the same. He started drinking and met and married my stepmother because she looked like my mom. He couldn't keep a job and we would have been homeless if my stepmom hadn't worked at the local bar.

Looking back now, I don't blame my former stepmother for leaving. I'm surprised she lasted as long as she did, but when I found out she wasn't my real mother, things began to make so much sense. Why she never noticed I struggled with reading and why she never even read to me or showed me affection like I saw mothers on televisions do with their kids. I never felt a connection with her. She was never mean. She was just an alcoholic who realized that my dad never loved her. He just married her to take care of me.

"I don't want you to feel guilty about leaving me son," he says with a woebegone expression on his face. "I am just being honest with you. I really want you to go, but I don't want you to forget me! That's all." He says and reaches for my hands, but I move them away so quickly that he is unable to make contact.

"Just leave me alone like you normally do unless you are hungry and want me to do something for you," I tell him. He can't make his years of child neglect alright with these pithy words. He won't miss me, he will just miss what I do for him.

"Sammy—"

"Why don't you want me to forget you when you forgot you even had a son to raise? You probably never knew how to be a parent being raised by your crazy uncle and not having parents of your own, but you could have learned how. You could have done better."

He starts to shake his head saying no, no, and that's he sorry, but I'm too angry at him to give a damn.

"Let's be honest, I've been more of a caretaker than your son. I am the adult and parent in this household and you are the child. You probably feel how I felt when April left, and I didn't have food to eat or water and lights because you didn't pay the bills. It was only when we got government assistance and food stamps that we were able to remain in this run down trailer and survive. The truth is you're scared now because you don't know how you're going to have food to eat since there's no one here to go shopping and cook for you while you sit on your lazy ass and pour beer down your throat that your so-called friends bring you along with the other trash you keep accumulating."

"That's not—"

"Don't give your friends access to your food stamps," I warn, cutting him off. "The last time you did, they sold them, remember?"

He stands there, stunned into silence. The tears continue and he swipes them away. I've been angry at him, but this is the very first time I told him how I felt. I've kept all this anger and resentment balled up inside of me, and now everything is coming out all at once. Hearing how I truly feel causes my dad to change.

"I did the best I could," he says, his voice breaking but he looks me in the eyes and not at the floor like a coward.

"Really? I have been living a nightmarish life, and the best you could do is that your only defense or explanation? It would have been better if you said nothing at all like you have done nothing at all."

"It's true."

"Your best look around you. "Is this your best? Your only child is about to go to college, and he doesn't even have a suitcase that works. All of my clothes, come from the Goodwill, and do you know how hard it is for someone my size to find clothes that fit? When have you ever cared about my needs? I'll tell you when. Never. You don't give a hell about anything other than getting your hands on alcohol and vegging out on the sofa."

"That's not true I always thought about your needs that is why I married April to make sure you would have a mom," he says brokenheartedly.

"And when she left? What did you do?" I press. When all I hear is him crying followed by no other sounds, I say, "Yeah. You and I both know you didn't do a damn thing but figure out a way to get beer but you couldn't figure out a way to take care of me. Do I have that right? You never had a low supply of your favorite drink, but when it came to buying me school clothes, supplies for school and for baseball, you couldn't care less. I play baseball, and I've had to work summers just to have cleats and a glove. But yeah. You cared about my needs so much."

He's almost catatonic behaving like shell of a man I've known all my life. Disgusted with him, my own behavior, and this entire situation, I bend down to see if the suitcase latch is completely broken. I become introspective as I realize I've carried those feelings inside of me for years, and now that they're out, I don't feel any better than I did before. Now, I regret the fit of rage that I have unleashed on my dad.

"I am going to spend some of the money that I have been saving for college on a decent suitcase at Goodwill," I tell before storming out the front door.

I sit on the steps, careful to avoid the middle step with the hole in it, take a deep breath and scream. Then I count to fifty and look up at the sky, angry again at the world for this hand I've been given. A crappy life with a crappy parent in a crappy trailer that I can't escape because that crappy parent is more like a child I can't abandon.

But why should I care when he abandoned me years ago? Not only that, but he also reversed our roles, and I've been playing the part of the parent since I was a kid. He never signed the permission slip for me to play baseball. I left it on the table for him for days. I remember that week was particularly difficult. He stayed on the couch under a blanket for an entire week. He only ate because I brought him food. I had to force him to get up and stretch his legs. Finally, on the day that the permission slips were due, I forged his signature. For the entire time of my tenure in high school, I forged his signature on everything. Whether it was a report card or a permission slip, I signed it, and he never once asked about it.

He's never come to a game or a play or an open house. I can count on one hand how many times he's talked to one of my teachers, but I guess it wasn't necessary. I was an excellent student and a gifted athlete.

After getting up and riding my bike to the Goodwill, I am lucky to find a suitcase in good condition along with a new pair of socks and underwear that are my size. I put my purchases in the suitcase and roll it beside my bike as I slowly make it home.

My dad is standing there when I return, and I refuse to acknowledge him. He follows me when I go into my room to pack my new suitcase.

"Looks like you found a nice one and some new underwear," he says, sounding sheepish. I don't respond. "You deserve so much more and so much better than me." If he's hoping I'm going to refute those words, he's going to be disappointed.

"I'm really am sorry, son," he whispers. "You're all I have, and I don't blame you if you leave here and never look back. Maybe if I was in your shoes, that's what I'd do, too."

"You? Leave? Don't make me laugh." I don't bother to look at him. I am still angry.

I refuse to look up and acknowledge him as he gets closer and closer to me. When he takes my hands, I try to pull away, but he holds them tight. I didn't know that he had that much strength.

"But I hope you won't do that because I don't know what I'd do without you, and it's not because of everything you do around here. It's because you're my son, and I know I haven't been the parent you need, and I haven't loved you the way you should be loved, but I do love you. I wish I could do better by you, and I tried. You don't know, but I tried. I simply can't." He drops my hands and no longer looks me in the eyes. "The truth is you don't need me, but I need you."

He walks out without another word. Shame hits the instant he closes the door behind him. I throw myself on the bed and cry loud sobs that turn into screams.

Mercedes's been watching me quietly since our talk and my walk down memory lane. When we drove by the school, we went to the grocery store because my dad screwed up his grocery delivery and didn't get the right ingredients for the dinner he's wanting tonight. He's in the living room now, happy watching Jessica destroy the house.

"I can cook," I tell her. "Why don't you relax by making yourself a drink. You probably need it after the crap I unloaded on you."

"I'm so much better at cooking than you."

"On what planet are you a better cook than me?" I ask. I playfully bump her with my hip and take over and show off all the skills I learned from watching cooking shows on PBS even before I got cable in college and began watching the Food Network religiously.

"Can I tell you something that I know you probably won't like?" she asks.

"Are you asking me for permission to speak?" I grin at her. "Yes, you have my permission. Go ahead, I can take it."

"I didn't grow up like you did. I don't pity you because obviously you overcome some of your struggles. I am still really sorry you grew up that way in a home without love and your needs being met. I hope this doesn't upset you, but I like your dad. I think he is overcoming a lot of things and wants to give you and Jessica the best parts of him now."

"You liking my dad doesn't upset me. I understand the Dwight you see today is not the father I had when I was a kid. If we are being honest. I like your parents, including your bonus mom Roz." She groans and makes a face. "I'm glad you like him. You can be our peacemaker when we visit in the future."

"After you left for college, did you go a long time without speaking to him?" She lowers her voice to make sure my father doesn't hear. He's too busy running after Jessica to pay any attention to us, but I get the feeling that Mercedes feels bad at the thought of my father being alone because I abandoned him when I went to college.

"I refused to talk to him for about a week. He called every day, but I wouldn't answer. I tried to block him, but that only lasted a few hours because I felt so guilty, but I was still so angry. I told myself that I didn't care about him, but I was lying to myself. So, I asked a neighbor to check on him. He called back and said he found him in his room curled up in a ball crying. I felt so guilty. I called him, and he cried like a baby on the phone. After that, I promised to contact him every day, and I kept my word either by text or a phone call. He's only like this now because of the therapy and medication he's on."

She puts a tiny hand on my arm. If anyone else had done that after hearing that story, I would have jerked away from them and said I don't need any pity. But Mercedes is only trying to comfort me, and her being there and caring for me and my father makes me feel whole. She is the only person other than my therapist I used to see that I have told everything to. I told Mike some of it, and he suggested that I see a therapist. After a few appointments, I determined it wasn't worth it. For therapy to work you have got to want to change. And I wasn't ready to change at that time.

She looks up at me and smiles. If I didn't know any better, I'd think she was proud of me and she knew every fault and imperfection I had.

"What are you smiling about?"

"You, and that reminds me, I need to call my mom and check on Granny." She starts to walk away to do that, but I wrap my hand around her wrist and pull her back to me. I tilt her chin up with my free hand and kiss her.

The kiss was only supposed to be a peck, but she feels and tastes so good that I don't ever want to stop. She's pressed against me, and she feels like she belongs there in my arms.

Who knew that something as simple as a kiss could feel more intimate than anything else I've ever done with a woman? Maybe this is why Jake and Mike are always kissing their wives. It's like a drug. I reluctantly break the kiss.

She grins at me, and when she turns to leave, I swat her behind. "Tell everyone except Junior I said hi."

"I will tell him Jessica says hi, you know how much she loves him."

As soon as Mercedes leaves, my dad heads to the freezer with Jessica in his arms. When he pulls out a popsicle, Jessica starts to clap her hands.

"Dad, we're about to eat dinner. She can't have that until after she eats her dinner."

"But she said pop pop, and you know I can't say no to her. Don't pay us any attention, besides this is my time with my only grandchild."

"Why can't you just wait and give it to her after dinner?"

"Because she wants it now and whatever my grandbaby wants, I am going to give her. She will know that I will do anything for her." He says and walks away as if I'm the one with the problem. Jessica waves at me on their way out then gives her Ike a kiss on the cheek and they both leave the kitchen giggling.