“That’s a terrible answer,” she says, another tear spilling. I wipe it with my finger and then return my hand to her cheek.
“It’s not.”
“Your family has treated you terribly for years,” she says.
“They wanted the best for me, though,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter what they wanted. Intentions don’t erase the damage, Oliver. They treated you wrong, andthat’swhat matters.”
“But I didn’t deserve kindness like you do. I was angry. Resentful. Jealous of Evan. I got what I deserved.”
“No,” she says sharply, grabbing my wrists and tugging my hands down to where our legs touch. “You did nothing to deserve their coldness, their ridiculous expectations, their disappointment. You deserved to be celebrated and cheered! Did your parents ever once tell you how much they loved watching you play? Or how proud they are for how you lead your team?”
My laugh is cold. “No. My granddad set the tone for the way my dad and mom responded.”
“Why have your parents let him wield so much power over your family?”
I look at our clasped hands. “My granddad was a Major League prospect until the Vietnam War. He came home hurt, and he never made it pro. He started coaching other players, though, and he had such a knack for it, he started his baseball academy a few years later. One of the first in the country. He made it big fast. But he used the power, the money like a weapon—dangling it over my dad and his siblings. My aunt and uncle got out early, kept their distance. But my dad got injured young playing baseball. He was still living at home, no insurance, no way to pay for rehab. He needed Granddad’s money.” Poppy runs a finger over my hands, and I find myself watching the movement with a longing that doesn’t make sense, considering I’m with her. “My mom was an aide at the rehab center Dad went to. They got married while Granddad was still footing the bills. That dynamic has never changed. Even now, it’s like my dad’s still living under his roof. Granddad calls the shots, and Dad acts like he doesn’t have a choice.”
I drag my eyes up to face her, to see what she thinks.
“That sounds hard for everyone,” she says. “Generational trauma is an ugly thing.”
“It is,” I say, understanding the term without having heard it before. “But my dad really is a lot better than his dad. I’ve seen pride in his eyes after a good play. We’ve watched a million games together. Cheered together. Booed together. He’s not a bad person.”
“You don’t have to make excuses for him,” she says, staring at me with her big warm eyes. “It sounds like he’s tried. But that’s still no excuse for years of making you feel like you’re never enough.”
A frown pulls my mouth to the side. “I don’t know if that’s what really bothers me.”
“Okay. What does?”
I let the silence stretch while I think over her question. And for some stupid reason, my head jumps to Evan. To Darren Murphy. To the ten thousand hours I spent running drill after drill.
“I did everything right. I was angry about it, yeah, but I did it. I feel like—” I stop myself short. It’s too petty to say out loud.
“You feel like good deeds should be rewarded and bad deeds should be punished?”
“Yes!” The word bursts from my mouth. “It’s sounfair!What else could I have done to make them care about me, Poppy?”
I feel my upper lip quiver, and I rub my nose, unwilling to let this emotion out. Because I won’t be able to bottle it back up once it is.
It’s Poppy’s turn to put her hands on my cheek. “That was never on you, Oliver. You didn’t deserve the way they treated you, and even if you’d been a hundred times worse than Evan, you wouldn’t have deserved it. You deserved love. Plain and simple and unconditional.”
I blink hard. “So did you.”
“I had it.”
“But your dad?—”
Her face drops. I can only imagine the pain that was caused by all those years of absence followed by how he used her for money. “I know,” she says. She lifts her head, and the tears I thought had stopped are streaming down her face. “But I have so many great memories, too. And some of his letters from prison are my most cherished possessions.”
Only Poppy could see the good in a dad who treated her like that.
“Maybe with him getting out tomorrow, things will be better.”
She closes her eyes and smiles as her cheeks get wetter and wetter. “That would be awesome.”
I wipe the tears from her face, even as they keep coming. For years, she’s had to put on a brave face for everyone around her. Her breaking down with me feels like … a gift. An honor.
