I did clean, but I didn’t stage anything.
My mother arrived the next afternoon, perfectly on time. She wore a camel-colored coat and heels that clicked against our crooked walkway. Her perfume hit me before she did.
I opened the door, and she walked in without saying hello.
She looked around once, then reached for the doorframe like she needed to catch her balance.
… she walked in without saying hello.
She walked through the living room like the floor might give out beneath her heels.
“Oh my God! What is this?”
Her eyes swept across every surface, absorbing the secondhand couch, the scuffed coffee table, and the pale crayon marks Aaron had once drawn along the baseboards, and I never bothered to scrub them out.
She paused in the hallway.
Her eyes swept across every surface.
Her gaze rested on the faded handprints outside Aaron’s bedroom, green smudges he’d pressed there himself after we painted his room together. In the far corner of the room sat the upright piano.
The lacquer had worn away in places, and the left pedal squeaked when used. One of the keys was stuck halfway down.
Aaron walked in from the kitchen holding a juice box. He glanced at her, then the piano. Without saying anything, he climbed up onto the bench and started to play.
One of the keys stuck halfway down.
My mother turned at the sound and froze.
The melody was slow and hesitant.
Chopin. The same piece she had drilled into me, hour after hour, until my hands went numb from repetition.
“Where did he learn that?” she asked. Her voice was quieter now, but not soft.
“He asked,” I said. “So, I taught him.”
Aaron climbed down and crossed the room, holding a sheet of paper with both hands.
