11
At six o’clock, the celebration began. The
auditorium was packed. After the president’s
speech, it was time for the distinguished alumni
speakers. Mark was one of them. Handsome,
successful Mark. He received a warm welcome.
After the speeches, the performances began. I
was first. The emcee introduced me with
glowing praise. I walked onstage, hair up, white
dress, a ghostly echo of myself from eighteen
years ago. The lights dimmed. The piano
awaited.
I had a few words to say. Words I’d rehearsed
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for years, for eighteen years. The years I’d given to Mark, my youth, my spirit. Now, I was reclaiming them.
I surveyed the audience. Silence. In the front
row, Mark stared at me, stunned. Amelia sat beside him, her smile strained, her posture rigid. Ethan was there too, eyes wide with disbelief.
I spoke. “When I was twenty, I stood on this stage, playing at the talent show. I thought, ‘I’m this good now? Imagine what I’ll be like in the future!‘ I was sure I’d be a famous pianist.” I paused, a wry smile touching my lips. “Instead, I became a wife and mother, a rose blooming for
others. Beautiful, colorful… but for someone
else’s enjoyment.”
Whispers rippled through the audience.
“Marriage is a trap,” I heard a girl say. “If she
hadn’t gotten married, she’d be a star by now.”
Mark’s face tightened.
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1900
“I was a rose for eighteen years,” I continued. “Now, I’m still a rose. But this time, I bloom for
myself.”
I sat down and played. The auditorium was silent, filled only with the music. I poured
everything into my performance. This was more significant than the Van Cliburn. I saw roses blooming in my mind’s eye. Not the ones Mark and I planted. My own roses.
When I finished, the applause was thunderous. I bowed, avoiding Mark’s gaze, and walked
offstage. Peter was waiting with a bouquet of
roses.
