Your fingers grip the edges of the staircase where we stand. I nod reassuringly to you, and your look is relief or even reprieve. She’s playing a sonata, your daughter and she’s nervous. A freckled and tiny person, just a schoolgirl uncomfortable in oversized casual clothes, out of uniform. The music is soothing, clear, light, the room quiet just for her and the piano. She finishes and you applaud and you wave, and you daughter stands, looks out into the audience and raises her hand to a sturdy woman in the second row. It’s the wrong mother but close enough.
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