He started making Sunday breakfast again—pancakes, scrambled eggs, the works. Just like Mom used to. We didn’t talk much at first. But we didn’t have to.
Then one morning, he asked me to come to the garage. I followed him out, still in pajamas.
There, under a blue tarp, was a secondhand upright piano. Not as grand as Mom’s, a little scuffed on the side, but it had hand-carved legs and soft, worn keys.
“I know it’s not hers,” he said, voice rough. “But it’s yours now.”
I didn’t say anything. I just sat down and played. The notes were shaky at first. But they came. One by one. And for the first time since she died, the music felt like home again.
