Please note that Cindy's black dress that you'll read about later in the story is pictured in my profile for those of you who would like to see it.
My wife Jennifer and I got together 17 years ago, been married for 13 years now. We waited until she had finished college before we made the ultimate leap together. Our circumstances were a little unusual to begin with, however.
I was 27, while she was 26 when we met. We had both been married already. I had a 6-year-old son Damon and was divorced for about two years, while she was a widow with a 2-year-old son, Alex, and 1-year-old daughter, Cindy.
When you're in your 20s with children, it's hard to find many single people without kids to be interested in you, so being in the same boat and all, we kind of matched up well.
Although we didn't get married until four years after we got together, we basically treated each others kids as our own. I remember poor little Alex when he was 2 1/2 , his mother and I had been dating only a month at the time, and he was already calling me "Daddy."
To be honest, I fell in love with her kids more than I ever did her. They were what drew me in as my friendship with her developed into something more. It was the whole idea of an instant family that appealed to me more than anything. Though I love Jennifer and care for her deeply, I'm not sure I ever felt that spark with her, or ever had it bad to where I couldn't live without her. I know it's horrible to admit, but it's the truth. We've managed to remain a loving couple, though as the kids grew older, we both found ourselves pursuing our own long-overdue interests.
My interests included playing golf -- a lot, something I had done since I was in my 20s. My son, Damon, never really took to sports, was always interested in music, though. His calling, however, was the military and now at 23, he was in basic training after graduating college.
Alex was a sophomore away at college. He was always an independent kid, so he wanted to see what life was really like on his own, going all the way to California to attend UCLA.
Then there's my precious Cindy. If I ever told her mother this, I'd be done for. But Cindy as a 1-year-old was the sole reason I decided to date her mother. Sure, I grew to love Jennifer because of Jennifer, but it was Cindy, the most adorable creature one could imagine, who sank the initial hook into me. I was putty in her hands.
In the early years I'd come over a few times a week to play with the kids, bringing Desmond sometimes. But after we were married, I obviously saw them everyday. Cindy was definitely Daddy's little girl, a tomboy in the making. With neither of the boys interested in sports, she and I became close, sharing that bond of something in common that is invaluable to a relationship. In truth, I had more in common with her than Jennifer or the boys combined.
I made sure to take her to her Tee Ball games, then Little League before she switched over to softball as a pre-teen. She got quite good at it, too, especially pitching. I'd be sure to always make sure she had someone to throw with if she felt the urge to work on her pitching.
By being there for her in that sphere, it was almost by default that it was me who had to explain the changes in her body: everything from her period, to the birds and bees talk to how to handle boys and what they want. It was never awkward because we were more buddies than anything. It was even me who was the one to tell her I wasn't her real dad, that her real father had hanged himself when she was but a few months old. Alcohol and a touch of insanity combined to drive him to it. It was only a few months after his death that I met Jennifer. He was abusive to her, so she looked at it as a good thing and was ready to move on with her life.
Cindy, who was 13 at the time, reacted as one would expect, with shock, dismay and then the inevitable string of questions about all the circumstances. For a few days after I told her, she seemed to be avoiding me. I figured giving her space was the best thing, but I hoped that she would still think of me as her daddy.
I tapped on her door before bedtime about a week after telling her and asked if we could talk. She acquiesced and I sat on her bed. I asked if anything was troubling her, but got dismissive, uncharacteristic, responses such as "I'm fine" and "everything's OK." Finally, I just grabbed her and gave her a bear hug, squeezing her like it was the last time I'd see her. She was taken aback at first, but finally put her arms around me and head on my shoulder and began crying.
"I love you daddy," she sobbed. "I don't care if you're not my real father, you raised me like I was your own."
She pulled away and our eyes locked. "I'm so glad to hear you say that. I was so worried you were mad at me or didn't want me to act like your daddy anymore."
She smiled and wiped away the lone tear that had trickled down my cheek. "I'm glad you're my daddy."
Our relationship stayed the same, except that as her body began to change, I began to take notice. Cindy was becoming quite the beauty, especially with her athletic structure. When she was 16, I began to take notice of her long, smooth legs with the right amount of muscle tone for a beauty and a softball pitcher. Her breasts were forming nicely as well, though I don't think they were bigger than a large B cup, they fit her 5-8 frame just fine by my eye. Her strawberry-red hair was the perfect touch that had all the boys falling over her at school.
"God, I'm a dirty old man," I thought to myself one morning after she bounded away from the breakfast table in her tight, form-fitting pajamas. But I also reasoned I was human and she wasn't my own flesh and blood, so stealing a few glances couldn't hurt anybody.
Cindy had a good head in her shoulders, made mostly As and though she dated some boys, seemed to put school and softball ahead of having a serious boyfriend. By her junior year, she was only drawing interest from a few small-college softball programs. I knew she was better than that, but living in a small community made it nearly impossible for her to be discovered by any of the big-time schools.
So I decided to take action and paid a $495 fee to have her participate in a prestigious pitching and hitting camp in Florida where we were guaranteed to have no fewer than 60 Division-I coaches or scouts on hand to observe the weeklong clinic. Since it was so far away, we could only afford one parent to go and I was the obvious choice.
We arrived and checked into our hotel and then headed over to the sports complex to register. Her first pitching session would be at 8 a.m. the next morning. We decided to order in so we could get to bed early. "Daddy, you don't know how much this means to me," she said in between bites of pizza. It was a grateful theme she had reiterated since I told her about the camp.
The next morning arrived and she was, of course, nervous. I told her that her future doesn't ride on a few pitches here, there will be other chances and that I loved her no matter what. That seemed to settle her nerves. The camp was set up so that the pitchers threw for a while as a radar gun clocked their speed. Then the pitcher would throw to a myriad of different hitters, to provide a variety of styles. After wowing the scouts with her velocity and movement on her pitches, she dazzled them more by mowing down hitter after hitter. It was a dream-come-true for her because by the end of the day, four schools had offered a full scholarship, while 12 others were showing major interest.
