Anna worked nights. I handled school pickups, lunches, and reheated dinners.
We watched cartoons on Saturdays. We danced in socks in the living room. We bought mismatched mugs from yard sales for no reason.
My mother never called.
Until one night, after dinner.
Her name flashed on my phone.
“So this is really the life you chose, Jonathan.”
“It is, Mom.”
“I’m back in town. I’ll stop by tomorrow. Send me the address. I’d like to see what you gave everything up for.”
When I told Anna, she stayed calm.
“You’re thinking of deep-cleaning the kitchen, aren’t you?”
“I don’t want her twisting what she sees.”
“She’s going to twist it anyway. This is who we are.”
The next afternoon, she arrived.
Perfectly on time.
Camel coat. Sharp heels clicking along our uneven path. Her perfume arrived before she did.
She walked inside without greeting me—and stopped.
“Oh my God! What is this?”
She moved through the house like it might collapse beneath her—taking in the worn furniture, the scuffed table, the crayon marks I never erased.
She stopped in the hallway.
Her eyes fixed on the faded green handprints outside Aaron’s room.
Inside, the old upright piano sat in the corner—worn, imperfect, loved.
Aaron walked in with a juice box, glanced at her, then climbed onto the bench and began to play.
Chopin.
Slow. Careful.
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