I’d wanted to learn since I was eleven years old.
My teacher, Priya, was twenty-six and wonderfully patient.
During our first lesson, I managed to produce one beautiful, low note.
The sound filled the room.
I stopped playing.
Priya looked concerned.
“Dorothy, are you okay?”
I smiled.
“I’m wonderful. Can we do that again?”
Owen and I began speaking every Sunday.
Not just quick messages.
Real conversations.
We discussed his work, television shows, recipes, and memories from his childhood.
He became more dependable.
When he promised to call, he called.
When he offered to help, he followed through.
I didn’t ask for details about his marriage.
That was his responsibility.
Christa and I remained polite.
She sent a Christmas card signed by all three of them.
I sent one back.
We weren’t close, but the tension gradually became easier to manage.
And Maya remained the brightest part of my life.
