My mother disowned me for marrying a single mom — she laughed at my life, then broke down when she saw it three years later. My father left when I was five. After that, my mother raised me alone. She came from a wealthy family and poured everything into my upbringing — not out of warmth, but expectation. I was alw...

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.

Chopin. The same piece she had drilled into me.

"I made you something."

He held up a drawing: our family standing on the front porch. My mother was in the upstairs window, surrounded by flower boxes.

"I didn't know what kind of flowers you liked, so I drew all of them."