Chapter 19 – Michonne

"He's a beautiful baby. In the nursery those ladies were swooning over him. They all wanted to hold him. He's a good looking boy. But, uh, he doesn't really look like I expected, Michonne. Blue eyes, my eyes, my nose. Lots of hair though, curly like mine. He's damn near white. Your mom said he might get a little color to him, at least I hope he does. Beth said she didn't know a black lady could have a white son. I didn't either honestly, but regardless he's our boy. I hope you don't mind but they said we needed to put a name on the birth certificate today, so I did. I, uh, I named him Carl Rance Grimes. Like you and my dad discussed. Cause, well, my pops is gone, Michonne. He's dead. We can name the next one after your dad, ok? Don't be mad."

Clearing his throat, I can hear Rick's somber voice fade. It's faint, and quiet, and with me not being fully conscious it's almost like a dream. Is this a dream? Did he say his father was dead? That Rance was dead? My eyes are closed, and my head is foggy. Everything is muffled. When I try to open my eyes, the lids are so heavy and only allow a sliver of light in. The room is dimly lit, with blurred sepia toned edges. Like watching a movie underwater. My limbs are heavy, weighed down by some unknown force.

Rick. In his voice I can hear something. Despair. And for that I want to reach for him, touch him, console him. Rance is dead?

Little whines, fussing, whimpering mewls. My baby. I want to hold him in my arms. Count his fingers and toes. Kiss his brow, breast feed him. I need to connect to him. To my…boy? Did he say it's a boy? Carl Rance Grimes. I knew it. I knew it was a boy. Rance and I knew it. He called it. But now he's gone. He's dead? Again. My dad is dead.

"Um. I need you to wake up, pretty girl. This, this is more than I can do alone. I can't...not by myself. I need my wife…and Carl needs his mama. You are the only family I have left, Michonne, and I'm trying. I promise I am. I- I fed Carl this morning, and man can this boy eat." An anemic laugh breaks through his words, softening the melancholy laced timbre of his voice. "I know you want to breast feed him, but he was hollering for milk so the nurses said it was ok to give him a bottle until you wake up. I know you will… I know you will wake up soon. The doctor said you should – you will. Don't know when, but you will. I won't lose you and my pop. I won't-"

"Mr. Grimes, excuse me, but do you want us to take the baby, sir? We can take him back to the nursery for you. Let you get some rest, go home and get yourself cleaned up?" Another voice says. A feminine one that is further away than Rick's, which feels close. So close that I can feel him move against the side of the bed. Feel him touching my hand, my brow, my lips.

"Naw. I got him. He should be here when his mama wakes up. I want her to see him. Him to see her. They've already lost so much time…"

"Sir, she may not wake up any time soon. The doctor told you that she lost a lot of blood. She's very weak, and might need more time to come out of it, to wake up."

"Then when she does, my son and I will be here for her." Rick spits in a terse, abrupt manner, dismissing her helpfulness. And I hate this. Even deep down, senses submerged under whatever drug they gave me, whatever illness necessitated this dense fog, I can hear the tension and pain in his voice. Hear how he's lashing out like a wounded animal, unable to recognize help when he sees it.

"Ok, sir, I'm sorry. I'll leave you alone then." The door closes, and with its click, Rick releases a tired, weary breath.

Hearing him shuffle, move away from the bed, I can't quite make out what he's doing from the dimly lit split of my eyelids, but I can hear his boots clopping on the floor. Click. Tap. Click. Tap. He's pacing. When Rick starts pacing it means that he is stressed, but he's humming so he must be trying to calm himself, or maybe the baby. My husband is not the best singer, but many nights he helped me cope with heartburn, or sleeplessness, by slowly rocking, swaying with me, and humming. Never fully singing a song, but humming different tunes. Sometimes old country ones that I've never heard of, but often a few old R&B or soul songs crept into his repertoire.

The longer he paces the easier it becomes for me to pick out the song he's humming. It's Otis Redding I believe. These Arms of Mine. It's one of my parents' golden oldies, and the emotion in the singer's voice always made me feel like he meant every word rising from his diaphragm, from his very soul. And though Rick sings no actual words, I have the same sense right now. His burning need is making him blue. I share the sentiment. My arms are yearning to hold him as well. And we are so symbiotically tied to each other, our emotions so heavily tethered, that his distress is mine. Even though my senses are dulled, I can literally feel the weight of his sadness, his grief. Like the caul covered grip of the grim reaper that surreptitiously snatched our fathers from this world, the dreary shadow of death would seek to cloud our hearts and minds with despair. We could share this dread. Wallow in the comfort of the expected grief and mourning period that normally follows death. Or we could fight past it and dance in the warm glow of life, the love and appreciation of our son's birth. Leave death in the dank, musty corners of our hearts and minds that hold the memories and the love for our fathers, and survive. Just survive somehow.

So I decide to fight. For the three of us. For Rick. For Carl. For myself. I make up my mind that Rick won't suffer alone any longer. Carl won't cry for his mother, and find her unresponsive to his call. Clawing, scratching, internally screaming, I beg my limbs to move, my lids to open, my mouth to speak. To stop the pain that's threatening to enclose my husband in never ending grief as he wades through the muck and grime of his sadness. Click. Tap. Click. Tap. He's pacing and humming. I'm fighting. And finally, through the tight closure of my throat, across the sandpiper dryness of my lips and tongue, one word escapes. "Rick."

"Michonne?"

Trying to lick my chapped lips with a tongue dryer than dirt, to prepare them for more words, I say his name again, along with another that brings me such immense joy, that no power exists strong enough to stop me from saying it. "Rick. Carl."

"Awe, pretty girl, you're awake!" Rick rushes over to me, scrambling to hold on to the very small bundle in his arms, while also launching his body on to mine. Kissing all over my face, with a series of firm, bruising pecks, his lips are also soft and careful. More careful than the vigor of his swift movements would appear to be. "Michonne…damn… you- you're awake." Rubbing his free hand across my face, he's removing the wetness that mingled over my cheeks from his tears and apparently mine. Leaning over my face, the tip of his nose pressed to mine, his hair tumbling over onto my forehead, the relief in his distraught eyes speaks volumes.

"Rick. Carl."

"I'm here. We're here. I wanted him with me when you woke up. Look at him, Michonne."

Leaning the squirming blankets that cozily comfort my son toward me so that I can view his face, I witness the most beautiful sight I've ever seen. The little round visage of my son. Rick beams proudly between my face, and the small barely tan one of our boy, Carl.

"Carl."

"That's right, this is Carl. You heard me talking to you? Telling you his name?"

Nodding, I begin to cough and lightly gasp at the dryness of my mouth.

"You need some water? Hold on. Lemme get you some water, and call the nurse to come check you out. You feel ok? You in pain?"

Shaking my head a little to let him know I'm not in any real discomfort, I continue to scrutinize my son, and Rick. My poor husband. I can tell that he has not slept, as evidenced by the red rim of his ocean blue eyes, that are heavily ridden by dark bags. By the stark paleness of his normally tanned skin. And he's wearing the same t-shirt and jeans from yesterday. My birthday. Carl's birthday.

Placing the baby in a bassinet next to my bed, Rick simultaneously presses a buzzer behind the bed to call for assistance, and grabs a pitcher of water. Swiftly he locates the button to raise the bed behind my head, elevating me to a seated position. A quick burst of tightness and pain radiates from my abdomen, and causes me to grimace as Rick takes a hold of my elbow, and places his arm around my back to lift and help me get comfortable in this new position. After pouring me a cup, he's now holding a straw to my lips, and lovingly rubbing his hands through the short twists in my hair. The beginnings of dreadlocks that I decided to grow during my pregnancy. He continues with long, easy strokes, the pads of his fingers, his hands fixing me and massaging the stress in my scalp away, the same way I have done for him numerous times.

On Rick's face is a tiny placid smile. A show of happiness. Pride. But the tense twitch at the corner of his lips shows the tenuousness of it, how easily it might falter, and fall into a frown to match the steady stream of swollen, fat tears that drop from his eyes. In this moment I am reminded by what I heard from him while I was under. Rance is dead. He's gone. He's dead. And my heart can't reconcile the idea of it, but my head knows that I must. Why? Because right now Rick can't. He's trying. God knows he's trying. That handsome smile of his shows that he's trying to do what he always does. To be strong for me. To take care of me. To bury his own pain for us. Me and Carl. Our son. But, that twitch, that little fault in the perfection of his beautiful face is telling. He's hurting. My sweet husband is falling apart inside. No. I won't let him go through this alone. I love him. I love them both. Rick. Carl. And Rick needs to be free to mourn, to be sad, to cry, to scream, to rage. To feel every single tearing rip of his soul. And to know that he can do that, free of my judgment, and supported by my own strength and love for him.

Instead of continuing to soak up his soothing affection, I softly stop his hand from stroking my hair, and place a kiss to his palm, guiding him to take a seat in the chair faithfully posted next to my bed. My movements are not smooth. They are jerky and erratic; I assume because of the medication I'm on. But, I attempt to keep them in sync with my brain, driving them to be of some help to my husband. To comfort him. Because I know this pain. The hollow, twist and wrench of it. The eviscerating crumble of your heart, knowing that your father is gone. That a piece of where you came from no longer exists in this world. It's familiar, this pain. We are dear old friends. But it is useful to me. I know what to do with it this time. How to protect my husband from becoming collateral damage from its savage and vicious blaze.

Watching my movements, it's as if Rick is holding his breath, waiting for me to fall apart and for him to have to step in and take care of me. And why wouldn't he? He's done it so many times before. Took care of me and propped me up. Made whatever is wrong in my life, between us, better. Sitting in the chair, with his upper body turned my way Rick is staring at me, expectantly waiting for me to do, or say something.

Assuredly, I raise my hands to his cheeks, and with a twinge of pain lean towards him and pull his face, his lips to mine. Placing my lips over his, I utter a whispered command. "Breathe."

And, he does. Dear God he does. In a wail that shows how inconsolably wounded he is, Rick releases a rush of his warm breath over my lips, accompanied by the continued free fall of his tears, escaping the glistening ocean of his eyes. Angling his upper body to lay on mine, his weary bones and muscles relax, as he lays on me, gifting me with the opportunity to help withstand and bear just a piece of the terrifying anguish that has plagued his soul. Wrapping my arms around his heavy torso, my hands rub over his back, his shoulders, up over his nape, to rub through his hair. To use my fingers to fix him, the same as he has always done for me.

Holding him to my breast, comforting my husband in my arms, I feel empowered and strengthened by his willingness to let me take care of him. I'm his to love, honor, and protect. But the same is true for him. Rick is mine, and when I said those vows to him, I meant every single one. Rick belongs to me.

"Ma'am, Ms. Kelly. You're awake?" The nurse from earlier returns. I can tell it's her by the same wary voice she used with Rick earlier, she's using with me right now, as her eyes suspiciously peruse the way Rick's large body is unceasingly draped across my own.

"Yes." I rasp out in a calm whisper, my throat and mouth less dry now with the water Rick provided to me.

"How- how do you feel? May I check your vitals?"

"Sure. Yes. On my other side though. Please."

"Oh, ok."

Rounding to the other side of the bed as requested, she checks my pulse, and blood pressure, all while Rick remains steadfast in my arms, his breathing no longer labored and distressed.

"Your vitals are good. How do your stitches feel? Any pain in your belly? Maybe he shouldn't lay on you like that just yet." She cautiously advises.

"It's fine. I have a little pain in my abdomen. Can you tell me what happened please?" I ask, continuing to stroke through Rick's hair.

"Sure. The doctor will want to come in and examine you further, to fully explain. But, you came in yesterday, in labor, heavily bleeding. Your baby was successfully delivered via c-section, and you had to receive a blood transfusion. You lost a great deal of blood, so you are probably going to feel very weak for a while. The doctor thought a hysterectomy might be necessary to stop the bleeding, but it wasn't. Aside from the stitches from your delivery, you should be fine I think. The doctor will tell you for sure though. Let me go page her."

"Thanks. Um, my family?"

"Yes! Oh! They are all camped out in the waiting room. They have not gone home all night. I will let them know you are awake. Your fiancé stayed here all night as well. He's kept the baby with him. I can see why he's tired. Would you like for me to take the baby to the nursery?"

"No. I want to see him and try to feed him when I can."

"Ok. Please don't try to lift him though. You won't be able to lift or bend for a while. The doctor can explain when she comes in." Turning to leave, she is immediately rushed by the dominating presence of my mother entering my room with Hershel following closely behind.

"I was just coming to get you, Dr. Greene."

"No need, I heard at the nurse's desk that my daughter was awake, so here I am. Well look at you, baby girl!"

Hurrying over to me, her warm chocolate eyes first land on Rick, then rise to my face. "He's had a rough go of it, Michy. Did he tell you?" Stroking her caring fingers over the apples of my cheeks, she leans over me to place a small kiss there, trying not to disturb Rick who appears to be sleeping now if his measured snores are any indication.

"That his dad is dead. He didn't tell me what happened though. How? When? I feel groggy like I missed a lot, but at the same time, nothing. And the baby is here, I have a son. Please tell me what happened."

"When he went to pickup his father he found him passed out. Heart attack. He tried to revive him with CPR, but he was already gone, honey. I guess at the same time you were going into labor, delivering this little angel. Your birthday has always been a hell of a day, little girl."

"Oh, Mom, how awful. I can't believe he's gone. On my birthday? On the same day Carl was born? Rick missed it…"

"And he'll be ok with that. You have to help him be ok with that. He can't feel guilt over something he had no control over, Michonne. Rick is a good man, who does the right thing. He was where he was, and what matters is where he is now. No hysterectomy means more babies, and that means he has a chance to be there for the next one, and however many more follow."

"You're right." Looking down at Rick, then over at Hershel, seated in a chair near the foot of the bed holding my baby in his arms, still wrapped tightly in his blankets.

"You did good, Michonne. You and Rick did good. This is a fine boy you have here. Rance would be so proud of you both. He was proud. And he loved you guys so much. Talked about you incessantly. Pissed me off a little if you want me to be honest." Hershel says, tone wistful and light as he carefully cradles my son, his grandson, in his caring arms. "Carl Rance Grimes. He resembles Rick when he was born. He's gonna look like Rance too. Have his heart, his fire, kindness. His grandpa is still here. A part of that tough son of a bitch's spirit will live in Rick, and in this boy for the rest of their lives. And with you. You were his daughter as much as you are mine. Don't you ever forget that, Michonne."

"I won't. I loved him too. I'm sad that he didn't get to meet his grandson. He was just getting to live his life on his own terms." Sadly, I swipe another rapid rush of tears from my cheeks.

"Don't you ever believe that. Rance was no victim, Michonne. He was human, yes. Made a lot of bad choices. But he lived. He saw the world, smoked his cigars, went to war, had children, friends, people who loved him as hard as he loved them. Ellen may have ruled over one part of him, the part he let her have, but there was so much more to him. I've known him most of my life, and you better believe there was more to that boot wearing redneck than what you saw. Rick is so very much like him sometimes it's amazing. Every good piece of Rance Grimes is right here, and right there." He pointed to Carl, and then to Rick. "And he wouldn't want sadness right now. This family is going to pull together, celebrate his life, and keep living. That's what Rance fought for, and that's what we're gonna do. Ok? And we're gonna all have to help Rick get through this together. His brother will be here from Japan on Friday for the funeral and the reading of the will. So, you get well, so you and my grandson can come home, and let's get to the business of living." Sounding very much like my mother did when my own father died, the love I have for my step-father, my father, Hershel, swells and blooms in my chest, threatening to overflow into another round of tears.

"I hate to ask, but how is his mother? Does she know?" I wonder aloud, only slightly interested in the actual answer.

"Yeah that bitch knows. She was apparently here last night with Rick down in Emergency, crying and wailing like she gave a damn about poor Rance." My mother muses, seemingly completely disinterested in sympathy for Rick's mother. If I'm being honest, I feel just about the same as my mother does regarding any concern for Ellen.

"Oh. Does she… does she know about the baby being born? About Carl?"

"I don't know, but for her sake I would suggest she keep a distance from my grandson. Matter of fact, Hershel let me hold my grandbaby, you're over there hogging him."

"Mona, I just got him." He playfully complains, but follows his wife's directions and hands him over as requested.

"Beautiful isn't he, Hershel? A little light, but he might get a tad darker. Maybe." With love my mother's soft eyes roam over her first grandchild.

"He is very fair. I didn't expect that. Thought he might have a little more color. Kind of like his great-uncle Robert. Guess genetics is funny that way."

"It is. And it doesn't matter. Your Nanny Mona loves you, Carl. Whether you are white as snow, or dark as coal. So many people love you, sweetpea. You're such a wonderful little blessing." She whispers, speaking the positive energy of love and life to him. Swiping her hand over the thick, chestnut curls covering his head, her gaze remains latched his form. Increasing his squirm at the feel of her ministrations, Carl begins to wiggle. In a matter of moments, completely unexpected, his little eyes pop open and he fixes them on my mother. As if her well of love for him could grow any deeper, she begins to laugh, and cry at the same time, holding my son even closer to her bosom.

"Mom, let me hold him. I haven't held him yet. I want to see him." I request, reaching out towards him, itching to get my hands on my son.

"Ok, but you will have to move your sleepy fiancé first. Poor boy."

"Rick, honey." Kissing the silky strands at the top of his head, I try to rouse him from his deep slumber.

"Hm."

"I need to hold the baby. Can you sit up for a moment? Are you ok?"

"Huh?" He sits up and looks around, blinking away the sleep from his eyes. Surveying the room, and finding my parents have now joined us, with my mother holding the baby, a tiny ghost of a smile animates his lips, tugging them upwards at the corners. "Hey. Hi. Sorry, I fell asleep for a moment."

"It's ok. You've had a rough night. Matter of fact, we'll run home and get you some clothes and things to change in to, allow you to freshen up, and spend some time with your family. Come on, Mona."

"Take care, guys. We will be back in about an hour." My mother hands me the baby, then bends over and kisses Rick on the cheek, as Hershel gives him a pat on the back.

Looking down into the tiny face of my boy I can feel my heart growing with more love than I ever thought possible. He is absolutely beautiful. With a round face and apple cheeks like my own, my son, Carl, is really a spitting image of Rick. Releasing the snugly wrapped blankets from his little body, Carl begins to kick his arms and legs, flailing them as if enjoying the freedom from the tight restriction. In a powder blue onesie t-shirt that matches the shocking blue of his eyes, with the sleeves folded over his miniature hands, Carl puckers his little pink lips and begins to place his covered fist into his mouth.

Wanting to inspect him, to confirm the perfection of my son that I'm already convinced of, I remove his hands from his mouth, and uncover them. Counting off ten long, slender fingers, I run my hands down his legs and repeat my count of each of his diminutive toes. Next I raise his little body in my hands, marveling at how long and thin he is. Bringing him to my face, I breathe in the powdery scent of his neck, and the milk laced smell of his sweet breath. Clutching him to me, I'm in awe of his majesty, and once again the tears begin to fall. How is it possible that I have any more to shed? Laughing, I admit to myself how grateful I am that at least this time they are not in sadness, but in appreciation for the gift of this tiny precious life that I hold in my hands.

This whole time, Rick stands next to the bed, his hands on his hips, watching as I officially meet our son.

"Rick, he's perfect. Thank you for this. For him. For everything. I know you are hurting right now, and I'm so sorry for that. But look at him. Come here, sweetheart. Look at what we've done. We did this. Me and you, Rick."

"We did good. This is all so bittersweet, and I wish I could be happy about our son, without feeling sad about my dad. It's a fight that I keep feeling like I'm losing, and I'm tired, Michonne. I am. And, I let you down because I wasn't there when you needed me. I'm sorry-"

"No, Rick, don't do that. Don't apologize for that. You were exactly where you needed to be. Doing exactly what you were supposed to be doing. What matters is that you are here now, with us, and we are going to get through all of this together. I promise you." Echoing my mother's words, I deliver them to Rick with nothing but honesty behind them.

"Every time I close my eyes I think about it. See him laying there on the floor, alone, wearing that 'Super Grandpa' t-shirt you gave him. And I tried to save my dad, Michonne. CPR, mouth to mouth. He was already gone according to the doctor. I just hope he knows that I loved him, love him still. That I'm sorry that he's gone. That he never got to meet Carl."

"Baby, it's normal to think about it. It just happened. And it's normal for it to hurt, even though you want to be happy about the baby. I want you to allow yourself to experience every single one of those emotions. Take your time, sweetheart. I remember how this feels. But, I'm here to help you through. I loved your dad, he was like my dad too. And I'm going to miss him dearly. But I remember my therapist telling me when my dad died, that I have to take all of those good memories, and keep them with me every day. Feed on them. Allow them to sustain me and carry me past death, to keep living. We have to keep living, Rick. Otherwise we are throwing away every wonderful thing about your father's life. He was a kind, loving man. His goodness is still here, in you. In Carl."

"And in you, pretty girl."

"That's right. And in me. We'll get through this. In time."

"Hold his head, Beth. You have to support it like I did." Maggie informs, educating Beth on the proper way to hold Carl. Seated on the couch in the front room, Maggie and Beth are keeping an eye on him as Rick and I get dressed, and prepare for his father's funeral.

"I got it, Maggie. I'm not a little kid you know." Beth huffs, exasperated with Maggie's overbearing presence hovering over her while she takes her turn with the baby.

"Well then support his head like it, Beth. Sheesh!" Maggie grumbles, watching to make sure Beth follows through as instructed.

"It's ok, Beth. Just be careful with him. Ok?" I offer, attempting to ease the tension between them. Since Carl and I came home from the hospital, Beth and Maggie have been extremely helpful with him. I am not really supposed to carry him up and down the stairs, or bend, so they have both been falling over themselves to be available to do it for me. Even when Rick is around and clearly capable.

"I will, Michy. I am always careful with him." Beth sarcastically asserts, only removing her eyes from the baby in her arms for a quick second, to roll them at Maggie. She has been taking her job as an aunt very seriously, and is quite enamored with Carl. With how small he is. Dressing him. Watching me feed him. For her, I suppose he is like a living doll, though her devotion to him stops at changing diapers, which she always offers to Maggie. After I bathed and fed him this morning, they took it upon themselves to get him dressed for the funeral in a lemon crème yellow jumper and socks. A ray of sunshine on an otherwise somber day.

Dressed in a white sheath dress, and gold flats, I pull my growing dreads back from my face with a bejeweled headband, and check myself in the mirror. Though it initially struck me as odd that Rick's father would request in his will that his funeral be a party, and that no one wear black, after giving it some thought it really does make total sense. Congruent with the man that I spent the last couple of months getting to know, Rance Grimes was someone who loved a good time, and abhorred pity. He didn't want it, and often when he spoke of his life's struggles, mentioned that it was useless.

"We about ready to go?" Rick asks as he descends from upstairs, shuffling the soles of his brown wingtips over the hardwood of the floors. In a tan colored suit, with a crisp, white, collared shirt underneath, Rick looks as handsome as I've ever seen him. Having taken a leave from work and no longer keep himself as staunchly groomed as he does when he's on duty, his hair is growing out, curling back from his face, and around his ears and nape, though still tapered close on the sides and back. His beard is trimmed low, and dark, thicker and longer than just his customary weekend scruff.

Taking a seat on the couch next to where Beth is still holding a sleeping Carl, he leans back into the cushions, his head dropped back, taking a brief moment to rest his tired body. We have been home from the hospital for a day or so now, and with the adjustment of a new baby and his erratic sleep schedule, Rick has also been unable to capture any true moments of restfulness. I suspect that he has been getting only a few hours of sleep a day, closing his eyes here and there. Resting and waking on Carl's schedule, helping with feedings and diaper changes, as well as working with his brother and uncle Robert to plan his father's funeral, it has all seemingly burned him out. Physically and emotionally. It's easy to tell. From the bloodshot red shocking through the whites of his often squinted eyes, the droop of his strong shoulders, to the slow measured pacing of his careful breaths, Rick needs a break.

Heading over to him, I stand in between his widespread legs. "Carl and I are ready when you are, baby. I just need to grab a few bottles of pumped milk just in case, then we can leave."

"Oh, I'll grab some bottles and stuff out of the refrigerator for you guys." Maggie offers, jumping up from the couch to head off to the kitchen.

"And I'll take Carl and get a blanket, just in case he gets cold." Beth adds, rising with Carl held tightly to her chest, then walking gingerly up the stairs.

"They're so helpful. I don't know what I'm going to do without them when we leave for Boston." I muse, a little lump forming in my throat at the thought of being so far away from home, without my little sisters.

Lifting his head, Rick glances up at me for a moment, rubbing at his tired eyes. "Yeah. They are good girls." Sitting up, he runs the flat palms of his hands up the backs of my legs, and under my dress, grabbing a firm handful of my ass. "You look beautiful, pretty girl. I like this dress."

"You clean up pretty well yourself, Mr. Grimes."

"I wanna talk to you for a moment, while we have a little time alone before the funeral."

"Ok, what's up?" Concern angling my brows into a frown, I move to try and sit next to Rick on the couch. Instead, with his hands still on my bottom, he urges me down on to his lap, with my legs resting across his.

"Where were you going?"

"To sit on the couch. Whatever you wanna talk about sounds serious."

"It is, but I want you right here with me. Ok?"

"Ok." I sheepishly reply, rolling my eyes away from the intensity of Rick's azure blue gaze.

"Listen, I know you are excited to go to Boston in September. To start school. But, um, I might not be able to join you and Carl immediately. I might have to come a little later."

"What?" I question, disbelief causing my voice to rise with obvious agitation.

"I was speaking to Dale yesterday, and he said that he was going over the will, preparing for the reading today. And looking at my father's finances, everything... Settling all of this between my brother, my uncle Robert, Morgan, and my mother might take longer than initially anticipated. They weren't fully divorced yet, and she could contest some of his decisions. Which would mean that I would have to be here to deal with that. I can't get back and forth to court here, if I'm in Boston."

"I don't understand…"

"I don't either, not fully. Dale said it should all make better sense today."

"Oh. Ok. So, like Carl and I would go on our own?"

"Maybe. Just for a while. I don't know. Let's see what happens today, but we need to be prepared either way."

"Hm." I want to cry. I want to get angry and scream. But, I can't. It wouldn't even make sense for me to get mad at Rick, over something that once again, his mother would be the cause of. All of this is completely out of his control, so how can I blame him? I don't want him to see the disappointment I'm feeling though, so I try to harness any negative energy I can feel brewing and shove it down. Stomp it to dust underneath the heel of my love for this man. The man that I would sacrifice everything for.

"Hey, pretty girl. Don't make that face. I shouldn't have said anything… The thought of you guys being away from me for any amount of time kills me. Physically hurts me. But, I know that I can't let this drama with my mother keep you from doing what you need to do. Thousands of people try to get into Harvard, and thousands are turned away. But, you are special, Michonne, that's why they chose you. That's why I chose you. I can't be selfish and ask you to lose out on that. We'll figure this all out, I promise you. Can you hang in there with me until we do?" With a little pinch to my chin, Rick turns my face towards his, and captures my lips. Kissing me with an earnest fervor that causes butterflies to flutter through my chest, and my head to feel light, I clutch at the lapels of his suit jacket to anchor myself against the onslaught of his passion.

"Are we good, baby?"

"Absolutely, Rick. You're right, something with your mother, and your father's finances is probably going to happen. And that might affect our Harvard plans. But, like you said, we can wait and see. Let's not be premature and make something happen, worry about something that might not even occur. We can find a way to make whatever does happen work for us. And even if it's not going to Harvard, I'm still with you." I nod, trying to convince Rick of the truth of my words.

Staring at me with so much relief and adoration in his eyes, Rick gives me a slowly spreading smile, then reaches his hand around to cup the back of my neck and bring my lips back to his. Before we have a chance to kiss again though, there is a knock at the door.

"I'll get it." I groan, as Rick carefully helps me up from his lap, mindful of the stitches from my c-section. Pulling my dress back down over my thighs, then smoothing it down over my bottom, I try to fix myself before I answer the door.

Swatting me lightly across the behind with his large palm, Rick tosses his chin my way. "Hurry back."

"Hush. Go upstairs and get Carl from Beth please. She's probably up there changing his clothes again. She treats that baby like he's a little doll or something."

"Alright."

As Rick heads upstairs, I hustle over to the front door, hearing the doorbell ring out again, announcing that our visitor is impatient for someone to answer.

"Ok, ok… Mike?"

"Hey, hi, Michonne."

"What…? What are you doing here?" I stutter, completely surprised to find him standing on my porch in a pair of khaki shorts and a red golf shirt, holding a large gift bag in his hands. Seemingly more handsome than I remember, Mike cuts a striking figure. The sun is high in the sky behind him, bathing him in its bright light, and showcasing the gorgeous dark cast of his mocha skin, his masculine features.

Sporting a newly grown out beard, that appetizingly frames his full lips, he nervously licks his tongue across them before jutting his hand out awkwardly towards me. "Your mother told my mother about the baby. I brought you this."

"Oh! Thank you… this is a surprise." I answer, accepting the gift bag from his hand, which casually brushes against my own in the exchange. Feeling the spark of familiarity spring between us, I jerk my hand back a bit, shocked at the occurrence. "It's not really a good time right now…"

"I understand. Like I said, your mother told mine about you giving birth the other day. That you're getting married. I just wanted to congratulate you, and say goodbye."

"Goodbye?"

"It's been awhile since we've spoken right?" He laughs. The movement causes him to brightly smile, which instantly causes me to smile in return. Again I'm caught off guard by my reaction to him. By the familiar comfortability I find in his presence.

Checking behind me, I know this is not a good time, I don't want this to further sour Rick's mood on an already difficult day, but something in me can't dismiss Mike so easily. There are years of history and friendship that will forever bind Mike and I, and though we have been estranged, I do feel an unexpected need to once again tap into that connection.

"Um, yeah it has been. I'm being rude, come in for a moment. Let's talk." Stepping back, I lift my hand and gesture for Mike to enter.

"You sure? I didn't come here to make trouble, Michy. I promise I didn't." Mike searches my face, my eyes, for some inkling that I believe his assertion.

"It's ok. Just for a moment. Rick is upstairs getting the baby. It's a bad day for him, his father just passed away. The funeral is today, so we are leaving out soon."

"Ah. I'm sorry to hear that. I'm not the guy's biggest fan, ya know. He stole my girl from right under my nose. But, my best friend lost her father, and I remember how difficult that was for her. I hope he can find his way past it. I'm sure you will help him with that. You're good that way."

"Thanks."

"I mean that. You are good that way. You have this energy about you. This something special that draws people to you, makes them choose you. I took that for granted, and behaved like a selfish idiot when I realized that I'd lost you. I lost my best friend and my lover, and that hurt me more than I can explain in words. But I tried to give you space, I hope you recognize that, Michy. On Halloween when we pulled up to your house, I saw how that guy handled you. How much he cares about you. He didn't blow up and want to fight or argue when he caught you with me. He just wanted you. And that's when I realized that his selflessness is what you needed. What you deserve. In that moment, it was like an epiphany. I got it."

"Mike, I'm really sorry for how we turned out, how our plans got turned inside out. That you got hurt in all of that. I truly am. I hope that you believe me."

"No more apologies between us, ok? I said it before, and I mean it, it's not necessary. Anyway, I got into MIT, my parents and I are driving my things up in the morning. I heard you got into Harvard law. I hope that we can still be friends, and that maybe this is one part of our plan that we can still see through, together. If that's ok with your…uh…fiancé." Nodding his head in acknowledgment, his eyes are now sternly focused somewhere behind me.

Turning to see what Mike is looking at, I find Rick standing behind me, holding Carl in his hands, and a diaper bag slung over his shoulder.

"Am I interrupting?" Rick calmly asks, his gaze swiveling between me and Mike, then down to the gift bag hanging from my hand.

"No. Uh, Mike… uh."

"Nah, man. I came by to congratulate Michonne on everything, and give her that gift. That's all. No trouble. She told me about your dad. My condolences." Offering his right hand out to Rick, Rick takes the few steps from behind me to accept it, giving Mike's hand a firm shake. "This is your little man, huh? You're a mother now, Michy. That's wild. It's kinda blowing my mind, ya know?"

"Yeah, mine too." I agree, inching closer to Rick, and clutching tightly to his arm. Witnessing the mature way that both of these men, the only two men in the world that I have ever romantically loved, has my heart swelling, and my eyes threatening to water with tears. Crying. That's my thing now, and I can do it at the drop of a dime.

"He's kinda light right? I expected him to be darker. Little man has blue eyes?"

"He takes after his dad I guess." I gush, grinning and just a tad nervous at how quiet and easygoing Rick is being with Mike here, staring so intently at a now wide awake Carl.

"No doubt. He's definitely your kid, man. Real talk, don't take this the wrong way, but when my mother told me you had a kid, a small part of me was holding out the smallest bit of hope that it might be mine."

"What?" Rick says, his calm demeanor finally showing a crack. I can feel the tension set in his bones, and instantly I'm rubbing my hand over his back, hoping to soothe him and reintroduce the placid serenity of just a few moments ago.

"Wait, wait. I know it was impossible. We…Michonne and I hadn't…"

"Hadn't what?" Rick asks, straightening his back, stiffening as though he is readying his body for a fight. Waiting on Mike's answer, he tilts his head to the side, and I know this is a bad sign. With his nerves so frayed from the string of ups and downs over the past week, I know that this can easily end in a violent flurry of fists.

"Been together. We hadn't been together in that way in a long time. It was impossible for him to be mine. But, I think I wanted him to be. I know that's wrong. You're together. You won, man. You have the baddest chick in the game. And she loves you."

"Hm."

"Thanks, Mike. But, maybe you should leave now."

"No problem. Yeah, I'm gonna get going, and let you guys do your thing. He's a good looking boy, Michonne. He may look like his dad, but I see you in there, Michy. That round head, and those chubby cheeks. Your little chin. That's all you." He muses, laughing at his own astute observations. "Yeah."

"Thank you for the gift, Mike. And uh, good luck. Maybe we will see you in Boston. Either way, I'm sure you will do great."

"No doubt, Michy. No doubt."

And with that, Mike turns on his heel, and walks out of the house. Out of my life. Maybe for good. Closing the door behind him, I'm struck by how potentially final his departure is, and I breathe out a solid ,thankful, gust of air. Thankful to have that chapter of my life peacefully at rest.

"Thanks for coming, everyone. This should be fairly quick. You all knew Rance Grimes pretty well, so you know he was nothing if not direct, and to the point. He left behind a will that is every bit as direct as he was. He also left a few letters for some of his loved ones. I will hand those out at the end. Any questions before I begin?" My uncle Dale began, peering into each of our faces over the frames of his silver metal glasses, perched precariously on the tip of his nose.

"No, Dale, I don't think there are any questions. Get on with it. I'm sure we are all ready to hear what my beloved husband had to say." Rick's mother offers up. In a black dress, despite the wishes of her 'beloved husband', Ellen is seated front and center, with her hands clasped daintily in her lap. Playing the role of the loving and faithful widow, she sat front and center at the funeral service as well, wailing and bellowing at every mention of Rance's name. Dabbing at her eyes now, Rick gives her a long sideways glance from where he is seated to her right, with his hand around my shoulders, holding me close.

Throughout the funeral, a beautiful outside ceremony held at the gravesite where generations of Grimes family members have been buried, Ellen moaned and groaned, crying and begging the Lord to spare her the pain of losing her husband. Surrounded by the rolling eyes, and smirking lips of nearly 100 people who knew the truth of her theatrics, and loved my father in law, it was all met by a measure of disbelief at how disrespectfully she attempted to make the ceremony more about her fake grief than about my father in law.

Despite his mother's loud protestations and faithful widow act, Rick remained stoic during the entire ceremony. Back erect, he held our son in one arm, and my hand, rested in his lap, in the other. The only indicator that he was in any kind of distress at all, were the few tears that slipped from behind the dark protection of his sunglasses, which he allowed to proudly and without apology, to fall over the plains of his handsome face. The manner in which he managed the day so far, with such grace and pride, I have to admit that while Rick may say that I am the stronger of the two of us, I have to wholly disagree.

Among the sweet fragrance emitting from the large floral arrangements, the largest of which was from a veteran's support group Rance belonged to, were swaths of stoic faced men and women, all decked in their military dress uniforms. I sat beside my husband, and his uncle, and could not hold back the tears and heartache at the loss of my fun loving father in law. Rance was more than that though, more than my husband's father, he was also my father, and the misery in my heart at the realization that I had lost another father, cut me deeply. As much as I attempted to hold it all together to support Rick through his mourning and sorrow, I stumbled and quietly fell apart in the privacy provided by the cover of my face with my hand, once I was confronted with the image of Rance in his casket.

How reminiscent and familiar this all felt. It was not so long ago that I was in this same position. Seated in the front row. Dressed in my best clothes, tears streaking my young face, misery tightly gripping my spirit in an unrelenting choke hold. Pleas and promises, prayers to God that I would be a good girl, a better daughter if this could all just be a bad dream. A hallucination that would disperse, setting all things back to rights when I opened my tightly shut eyes. Eyes that could not look upon the beautiful, dark face of my own father. At least this time maturity prevented a full break down. Unlike when I did finally have to approach the casket, and look down on the unnaturally made up visage of the handsome, once full of life, kind, and intelligent, Andre Kelly.

No. This time I held it together a bit more. If not just for myself. If not just for Rick. Then for the wide open, wandering eyes of my son, poised and ready to cloud with tears at a moment's notice, somehow sensing the stress of his parents. The tension in my face. Instead of the wails, screams, or chanted prayers from before, only soft whimpers and tears escaped my tightly pursed lips, and my tired, sad eyes.

Equally dashing as my own father had been, even in death, Rance was buried in his Marines dress blues. In a dark wood casket, the insignia for the Marines stitched with impeccable craftsmanship along the lid, it was obvious that he had been impossibley meticulous with the details of his burial. Rick mentioned that there was nothing left for his family to do but show up, as everything had also been pre-paid and pre-selected. All of which led Rick and I to come to the conclusion that his father must have known he was sick, and that his death what only an unexpected occurrence for us. Rance was well aware that this day was swiftly approaching. And as my uncle Dale began to recite my father in law's Last Will and Testament, noting the date was only a month ago, our speculations regarding his awareness of his own mortality was all but confirmed.

"I Rance William Grimes, resident of King County, Georgia, being of sound mind and body, not acting under duress or undue influence, and fully understanding the nature and extent of all my property and of this disposition thereof, do hereby make, publish, and declare this document to be my Last Will and Testament, and hereby revoke any and all other wills and codicils heretofore made by me.

Now that the fancy stuff is out of the way, here is the grit of it. I leave everything directly as follows, with no legal deviations allowed. All trusts that I am the named trustee of in full or part, are left to my brother Robert Carl Grimes-Jones, to be maintained and dispersed of as directed by our late father Carl Grimes. I leave any and all property left in my name, including the businesses on Main Street in King County, the farm on Forsyth Road, my cars, jewelry, and all belongings therein to my sons, Jeffrey William Grimes and Richard Andrew Grimes, to be managed and split between them equitably. Any cash, stocks, bonds, and mutual funds are left to my brother Robert Carl Grimes-Jones. All jewelry, totaling in value of approximately $2 million dollars, left in a safe deposit box at Georgia Agricultural Savings and Loan, are left to my son Richard Andrew Grimes, and his fiancé Michonne Sabine Kelly. All real estate properties in my name are left in a trust for my grandchildren, all who are yet to be born, to be split equally amongst them, for which my sons Jeffrey and Richard are to share trustee responsibilities. There are also deeds for homes, for each of my sons and their families, each on Cherokee Rose Road in King County, on fifty acres each, that include a back fifty acres for farming, as well as stables for horses. And for my legal wife, Ellen Stafford-Grimes, I leave nothing. Not a gotdamn thing."

A shocked quiet settles over the room. With wide eyes, and a nearly imperceptible smile, Rick looks my way. Shaking my head, I can not believe that Rance left me anything, let alone the wealth he had accumulated to leave behind at all. In the stillness, Dale raised from his seat and began handing out envelopes, one for Robert, Jeff, Rick, and myself.

Reaching out to Dale as he attempted to return back to his desk, having not provided her with a letter, Ellen raises her voice in anger. "Is there nothing else, Dale? Nothing for me?" Gasping, waiting for an answer, she jumps up in shock from her chair in front of Dale's desk.

"There's no letter for you, Ellen. And, I think Rance was pretty clear what he wanted you to have in the will. Everyone here will get a copy, and you can check but these have been filed with the probate courts. You can contest it there."

"He was still my husband, gotdamn it! This can't be right." Shaking her head, she lunges towards the papers that Dale just read from, scattered on his desk, rifling through them. I assume she is looking for a letter to her from Rance. A letter she surely will not find.

"Ellen, have a seat or leave. You heard the same thing we all heard. Don't make this harder than it needs to be. Don't embarrass yourself any further." Rick rises from his own chair, and stands between his mother and Dale's desk. Setting his blazing blue eyes on his mother, staring into hers that are identical to his own. The disgust and acrimony he has for her is palpable. Reaching for my hand, Rick mutters, "Come on, Michonne, let's get to the party."

"You ready to go, daddy?"

"Hm? Yeah. Jeff and I were just going through some of my father's things out here. Records, books…" Rick grumbles over the soft hum of oldies playing through the speakers in the dark garage, tossing back a half full glass of what I assume is whisky. Running his hand back through his curls, he drops his head, chin to his chest.

"Yeah. He has a trunk full of our report cards, art projects, letters we wrote to him while he was deployed. Saved it all." Rick's brother Jeff muses, his own glass of whisky clutched tightly in his hand. Seated atop a stool in the corner, by a workbench covered in tools and parts that I cannot begin to name or identify, Jeff is bathed in the stark light overhead, illuminating the mess of the workspace. Every bit as handsome as Rick, with a high forehead, and hair that is dark, nearly black, spun through with hints of gray, Jeff is more Ellen than Rance.

While Rick is Rance 2.0, Jeff showcases the darker, probably Eastern European, good looks of his mother. With a life as a career military man, an officer, Jeff's skin is not blessed with the kiss of the sun constantly bearing down. Instead, he's got a pale cast that makes him appear every bit the stoic, cozy office having, military captain that he is. At odds somewhat with that, is the warm and welcoming manner that he has displayed with Carl and I, and the clear affection he holds for his younger brother. While he and his impossibly diminutive wife, Tina, met Rick, Carl and I at our house last night with hugs, kisses, and a lot of playful and familial ribbing, he has not uttered a single word, or gesture of acknowledgement to Ellen. Not one. Even when she approached him at the funeral, he stared through her as though she were some invisible apparition, only real in the minds of those who believe in her.

"That was sweet. He always told me how proud he was of you guys. That you turned out so well, all things considered."

"You mean that our mother who raised us was a spiteful, racist, shrew? That what you mean, Michonne?" Jeff asks, his squinting gaze settled on me in question, as he sips from his glass with the same thin, smirking lips as his mother.

"I didn't use those words exactly, Jeff."

"I'm sure you would have liked to though. I'm certain Rance did." He laughs, obviously knowing his father well enough to be confident that those were almost word for word, the terms Rance used to describe their mother. "Ah, anyway, I'm gonna get going. Tina and I wanna go check out the house the old man left for us in the morning. I'm drunk and worn out. It's been a long day. See you tomorrow, bro." Walking over to Rick, seated on the pristine hood of the old car in the middle of the garage, Jeff claps him on the back, and places a brotherly kiss to the top of his head. Turning to leave, towards where Carl and I stand in the doorway of the garage, he leans in to give me a warm hug, and gently rub his hand over Carl's head. "He's a handsome boy. Too bad he looks so much like you, Rick. His mama is much better looking." He tosses teasingly over his shoulder, then winks playfully at me as he walks out of the door, closing it behind him.

Chuckling at Jeff's parting words, I amble over to Rick, who is leaned forward, his elbows resting heavily on his thighs. Having dispatched of his suit jacket right after the reading of the will, his shirt sleeves are rolled up to the bend at his elbows, showcasing the strong veins that course underneath the tanned, hairy skin of his forearms. Running my palms over his skin there, the warmth found, along with the tickle of the hair against the life lines of my hand, cause goosebumps to form over my own arm.

"I'm ok." Rick offers, whisky on his breath, lacing his brief declaration.

"I know."

"How?" Looking up to me, question in his dark sapphire eyes. His form awash in the strike of light from overhead, he tilts his head awaiting my answer.

"Because I'm ok too."

"Yeah. This song, you hear it? This is Otis Redding. My pops was listening to this the day he died. It was- it was playing in the house when I found him. I miss him, Michonne. My Chonne. That's what he used to call you. Remember?"

"His country lips just couldn't get that French pronunciation. At least that's what he blamed it on."

Laughing softly, eyes focused on my lips, Rick unexpectedly wraps his arm possessively around my waist, dragging me closer. Raising his head, he kisses me sweetly. With the press of his lips against my own, familiar warmth caresses my skin, moving down from where we are joined, and out to my limbs. "Come here, pretty girl. Dance with me."

Swaying easily against my husband's firm chest, his lean hips are pressed closely to mine, and our sleeping son is between us. I drop my forehead to place a loving kiss at the base of his throat, where his shirt is unbuttoned, and the hair from his chest peeks above, tickling my lips.

The bluesy rhythm of the current song, and the next, keeps us in synch with each other, dancing away our melancholy. Recalling the words to the song, Misty Blue, sung pleadingly by a woman whose name I can not recall, I whisper them softly into the crook of Rick's neck, and the mix of cologne, sweat, and his familiar musk, that is all pure Rick Grimes.

"Oh, it's been such a long, long time
Looks like I'd get you off my mind
But I can't
Just the thought of you (just the thought of you)
Turns my whole world misty blue (misty blue)

Oh honey, just the mention of your name (just your name)
Turns the flicker to a flame
Listen to me good, baby
I think of the things we used to do
And my whole world turns misty blue (misty blue)…"

"Ahem. Found you in the same place I always found your father. I guess you are always going to be just like him."

"Ellen. What can I do for you?" Rick asks, clearly upset that he was disturbed from the quiet, private moment with his family, his arms tighten stronger around my waist in frustration, and protection. As though he needs to keep Carl and I secure, safe from his mother's presence.

"He's left me with nothing, Rick. I'm going to have to fight that. After sticking with him all of those years, I deserve something."

"You deserve what he left you. Nothing."

"You turned out fine. Jeff turned out fine. I couldn't have done such a bad job as a mother. Do you both hate me so much that you would see me destitute? On the street?"

"But you aren't, are you? You've been staying with your family since Rance left you. You're hardly destitute. I think you are right where you should be, with the people you should be with. Come on, Michonne." With his hand to the small of my back, Rick begins ushering Carl and I to the door.

When we reach his mother, stiffly standing in the door, blocking our way, she drops her eyes to my son. Eyes now open, wide awake, his blue eyes are now focused on Ellen. His grandmother.

"He- he has my eyes. They're blue. And he's very fair… he's almost white as snow…"

"Shut up! My son is not white. Regardless of what your deranged mind might think, what you think you see, he's not like you. He's not white." Rick admonishes, his voice enraged at her insinuation.

"But, Rick, look at him, he's not black at all. May I hold him? I'm his grandmother."

As she reaches for him, I instantly smack her hands away, driven to protect my son from even the thought of her wrinkled hand touching his new and innocent skin. "No, Ellen, you may not." I answer, appalled at her nerve, and feeling the anger wafting from Rick in waves. His face is now twisted, lips downturned in a frown, matching the displeased twist of my own. "Forget you ever saw my son. Because that's who he is, my son. My half black son."

"What? I know I have done some things, said some things that you both don't agree with, but I did them out of love. To protect this family. Your father left me. I didn't leave him. I could have, so many times. The times he was so angry he would grab me, hurt me. When he cheated on me while he was overseas. I forgave him. Welcomed him back home. And he's the saint? No! Now that I'm alone, no one cares that I'm hurting, that I've been damaged and wronged. I have no one, nothing. Now you're going to keep my grandson, my own kin from me?" Laying herself out there, Ellen finally shows a modicum of true humanity underneath the veneer of her time cherished legacy of racism and hate. But then again, she's also played the card she has remained so faithful to, and casts herself as the victim.

"Yes." Rick coldly responds, his face not betraying even an inch of softness or caring for her emotionally naked words.

"I'm sorry, Rick. I am. Can't you see that? If you don't, if you can't forgive me, and help me to get what's due to me, then I'm going to have to fight you for it, son. You and Jeff are leaving me no choice." Steeling herself against his terse dismissal, she lays it out there, her threat delivered with a defiant upwards tilt of her chin.

"I welcome that fight, Ellen. You're going to finally get the pushback that I should have always given you. If Rance ever raised a hand to you, I'm sorry for that, no woman deserves that kind of aggression. I truly am. He was wrong for that." Taking a moment, seemingly pained by the very idea of his father lashing out to physically abuse his mother, Rick closes his eyes. "That doesn't absolve you though. Being a victim, doesn't make it ok for you to become the predator. It's doesn't absolve you from using him to steal away the inheritance that belonged to my uncle Robert, to my cousin Morgan. You drove Jeff away with your bullshit. Now you turn to me, but I don't owe you a damn thing. In my own naïve way, I let you believe that I was your sucker. Never said anything to you when you would say racist shit, when you would make your little comments, when you always pushed Lori on me. Part of this hate I have festering for you is my fault. But, when you tried with everything in you to manipulate and use me, to take away my free will, my choice. To keep me from my woman, I decided I can never forgive you. Michonne is the only woman I have ever loved, and your mind is so twisted and sick, that it wasn't enough for you that I was happy. In love. If it were up to you I would be stuck with Lori, raising another man's child, even though you know I don't love her. And now that you see that none of that shit worked, that you're left with absolutely nothing, no one... Not even the girl you unconscionably used to get what you wanted, you want my sympathy, my forgiveness. To be apart of my family. Let me tell you something, Ellen, you won't get any of that here."

"Rick-"

"I mean it. You want to fight me for any of Rance's things, his money, this farm. I dare you to try. But know this, you are already dead to me."