I was so damn proud of that kid.
I’d heard him practice, obviously, though it usually came in fragments. Occasionally he had a dramatic burst, after which he announced he was “channeling a doomed composer.” But itwas different to see him there, under the stage lights, his hands poised over the keys.
He began a simple classical piece I only recognized because he’d complained about it for three weeks. His fingers moved tentatively at first, then with more confidence. He made one tiny mistake, barely anything, and his mouth tightened before he moved through it.
I wanted to stand up and cheer right then. I didn’t, because Bianca would have disowned me, and CJ would have moved to another state under an assumed name.
When he finished, the applause shattered the awed silence. Cheeks flushed, he stood, bowing with more drama than necessary.
His eyes found me. I grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. He tried to look unimpressed, but he failed. Beside me, Winnie clapped with complete sincerity.
“He was wonderful,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, because anything that required more vocabulary than that might have cracked something open that neither of us were ready for.
Bianca performed with the fourth-grade chorus. She had explained in advance that she was not “performing” but “participating in a required ensemble assessment,” which was Bianca-speak forI’m nervous and would rather chew glass than admit it.
She stood on the second riser near the center, cardigan buttoned over her recital dress, hair pulled back with a ribbon. She liftedher chin slightly, looking more composed than half the adults in the room.
The song began.
Bianca sang with precise focus, watching the music teacher’s hands. Every few moments, her gaze roamed over the audience. Toward us. Toward me.
I smiled every time.
At intermission, I was already floating a little from having seen CJ and Bianca perform. Their second performances were still ahead. I’d made the right call by leaving work early. Being present for my kids, seeing their achievements, was what mattered.
Then my phone buzzed. I took it out of my pocket and glanced at the screen. Peterson.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again. Then again.
My stomach tightened with irritation. I stepped into the aisle, keeping my head low. “I’ll be right back.”
Winnie looked at me with a scowl. “Now? Are you serious?”
“It’s one call.”
Her expression did not change much, but her eyes cooled.
Outside the auditorium, the hallway was bright and crowded with parents stretching legs and children sneaking snacks from coat pockets. I found a quiet spot near a trophy case and answered.
“Peterson, this better be important,” I said.
He launched into a crisis involving numbers that did not match, a client who wanted revised models before morning, and a document that apparently couldn’t wait until I’d watched my daughter sing about seasonal renewal.
I kept checking the time. The lights flickered once, signaling everyone back inside.
“I need to go,” I said.
“I understand, but if we don’t address this before the board packet locks?—”
I looked toward the auditorium doors. I could hear applause starting inside.
I should’ve hung up. Instead, I said, “Send me the file.”
By the time I slipped back into the auditorium, the second half had already begun. I moved down the aisle as quietly as possible, but a woman in the end seat still gave me a look most people reserved for dirty politicians.
