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“We did it already.” Amy nudges me playfully. “Can’t you hear?”
I shake my head, still not believing it. But the sounds of instruments floating from the windows and onto the street tell me this is real.
Mama appears from Mandy’s family restaurant with three cups of coffee and a donut for me and Amy because sometimes, she still treats us like we’re children.
I take the cup and bun. “Thank you.”
She joins us, a little awestruck as we gaze up at the sign.
RMA
Russell Music Academy.
When I was away, the building next to Amy’s music shop went up for sale. The money was eye-watering, but when she broached the subject of a music school, I knew the moment butterflies swirled in my belly, it was right. I could feel it.
I sold my house in Penrith and cleared my savings. Together, and with some help from the bank, we scraped together enough for this dream.
Amy did most of the heavy lifting because I wasn’t here. But when I came home six weeks ago, we got stuck in. We officially opened four days ago to a full music school and a waiting list longer than my arm.
I even teach.
Who would have thought?
Music was always my life, but my purpose was to help people like Mama, and children like Amy and I used to be.
So…we combined both.
My year away thought me how influential music can be in those circumstances.
I should know.
It saved me more times than I can count.
Taking the idea I had with the music room in the shelter, we ran with it. Along with regular lessons, we started a music program for people just like us.
We see the impact it has in the shelter, but the kids didn’t have many options to continue when they left. Now, they’ll come to us to continue studying.
“I’m so proud of my girls.” Mama wipes a tear from her eye, and we instantly crowd her for a hug.
“Don’t cry, Mama.”
Standing back, I sip from the cup and try to hide my grimace.
“I thought you loved that coffee, Claire.”
I open my mouth to defend myself, but Amy buts in. “Ah, she’s cultured now, Mama. She experienced French and Italian coffee. This is muck to our world traveller.”
I roll my eyes.
“Ouraward-winningworld traveller,” my mother adds, pride gleaming in her smile.
“You know I didn’t win the award by myself, right? I was part of the team conducting the study.”
She shrugs.
I’ve told her this many times since I came home last month, but she still tells everyone it was just me. She’s addedaward-winningto the end of my name.
It makes me cringe, but I love her for it.
