2
I exhaled slowly, looking around my former
home. I’d lived here with Claire, my husband
John, and his mother, before the divorce.
Claire was at school, John was on a business
trip, and his mother was out line dancing.
The house wasn’t large – three bedrooms
and a living room. My mother–in–law had a
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room, Claire had a room, and Claire’s piano
and books occupied the third. John, always
traveling, rarely stayed home. When he did, he
slept in his mother’s room, and she’d share
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Claire’s queen–sized bed.
Me? I slept on the sofa bed in the living room.
Sofa by day, bed by night. A constant
reminder that I was an outsider in my own
home. My personal belongings were crammed
into a small cabinet in the piano room. Even
then, Claire constantly complained that my
things were taking up too much space,
threatening to throw my clothes away.
The house was jointly owned. It should have
been mine after John’s infidelity. But he and
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his mistress had been cunning, with my
mother–in–law adding fuel to the fire.
To keep Claire, I’d given up everything,
walking away with nothing. We’d moved into a
small apartment near her school. Claire had
resented me for it. She insisted the house
was John’s, accusing me of dragging her
down with me. She constantly complained about the lack of “allowance,” accusing me
of withholding child support. John hadn’t paid
a cent. She thought I prevented her from
seeing him because I was afraid he’d take her
away. The truth was, I didn’t want her to see
John and his new wife’s perfect life, their
eagerly awaited son, and the blatant
disregard for her existence.
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She’d always believed John was the best
person in the world and, by extension, adored
her grandmother. She didn’t know they
resented me for not giving them a son, for
failing to continue their family line.
My kindness had been twisted into something ugly. A lifetime of devotion, repaid with
resentment and accusations. Pathetic.
But I was reborn. I had a second chance to
choose my own life.
I called the music store to arrange the sale of the piano. Last time, my life savings had gone into buying that instrument. Her old piano was out of tune, beyond repair. The national
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competition was her chance to soar, and I
hadn’t wanted a faulty piano to hold her back.
And what had she done? Smashed it without
a second thought.
If she didn’t want it, I’d take it back.
Just then, Claire came home from school, a
dreamy smile plastered on her face. “I’m
home!” she cooed into her phone. “See you
later, babe.” The smile vanished when she
saw me, replaced with the familiar look of
disgust, as if I were a rotting rat.
I was in the piano room. “What are you doing
here, old lady?” she snarled. “Spying on my
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practice again? You’re so pathetic!”
“I told you, I hate playing the piano! I don’t
want to! Other parents are so chill. They let
their kids watch TV, read, play video games after school. I have to practice every day, and
you even nag me about going to bed!”
Even though I’d decided to let go, her words
stung, a deep ache in my chest. I
remembered when Claire was little, her eyes
shining with excitement as she talked about becoming a pianist. John had refused to spend money on lessons, her grandmother
calling her a waste of resources. Only 1,
against their disapproval, had invested in her dream.
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Now she claimed to hate it? That I was
forcing her?
An hour of practice a day to prepare for the
competition was depriving her of freedom?
Pushing her to practice, to aim for a
prestigious university, wasn’t for her own
good?
Telling her to go to bed instead of playing
video games until 2 am when she had school
at 6 am – was that wrong?
Now, there was no anger, only a chilling
emptiness.
“You’re right,” I said calmly. “I won’t force you
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to practice anymore.”
