“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
He kissed my forehead and said,
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
Had there been someone else? A secret life I never knew about?
The thought made me sick.
I called a taxi. The driver was young and chatty. He tried to make conversation about the weather. I couldn’t hear him over the roaring in my head.
We drove for nearly an hour. The neighborhoods changed. Got quieter. The buildings older.
Finally, we stopped in front of a brick building with a green door.
“This is it, ma’am.”
I paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, staring at that door. Part of me wanted to turn around.
But I needed to know.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The first thing that hit me was the smell.
Polished wood. Old paper. Something familiar.
Then I recognized it.
Sheet music. Wood polish. The smell of a music room.
I turned on the light.
In the center of the room stood an upright piano. Dark wood. Polished. Beautiful.
The walls were lined with shelves filled with sheet music, recordings, and books about music theory.
On the piano bench sat neatly stacked sheet music.
I picked up one of the pieces.
“Clair de Lune” by Debussy.
My favorite.
I’d told Robert that once, decades ago, when I still played.
On the music stand was another piece: “Moonlight Sonata.”
Another favorite.
On a small table in the corner were labeled recordings.
“For Daisy – December 2018.”
“For Daisy – March 2020.”
Dozens of them, going back years.
On the same table lay medical reports dated six months before Robert died.
“Diagnosis: severe heart condition.
Prognosis: limited time.”
Robert had known.
Beside them was a contract instructing a caretaker to deliver the flowers and envelope on the first Valentine’s Day after his death.
He had planned this.
Next to the contract lay a journal.
The first entry was dated 25 years ago:
“Today, Daisy mentioned her old piano. She said, ‘I used to dream of being a pianist. Playing in concert halls. But life had other plans.’ She laughed when she said it, but I saw the sadness in her eyes.”
For illustrative purposes only
I remembered that conversation.
The next entry:
“I’ve decided to learn piano. I want to give her back the dream she gave up for our family.”
He wrote about his lessons:
“Signed up for piano lessons today. The instructor is half my age. She looked skeptical when I told her I’m a complete beginner.”
About his struggles:
“Today I tried to play a simple scale and my fingers felt like they belonged to someone else. This is harder than I thought.”
“I’ve been at this for six months and I still can’t play a simple melody without mistakes. Maybe I’m too old to learn.”
About his determination:
“I’m not giving up. Daisy never gave up on me. I won’t give up on this.”
About his progress:
“Today I played ‘Clair de Lune’ all the way through. It wasn’t perfect, but it was recognizable. I recorded it for her.”
Near the end, the entries grew shorter.
“The doctor says my heart is giving out. I don’t have much time. But I need to finish one more piece.”
“Daisy asked me yesterday why I’ve been gone so much. I told her I was visiting old friends. I hated lying to her. But I can’t tell her yet. Not until it’s finished.”
“My hands shake now when I play. But I keep practicing. For her.”
“This will be my last composition. I’m writing it myself. For her. I want it to be perfect. She deserves perfection.”
The final entry:
“I’m out of time. I’m sorry, my love. I couldn’t finish.”
On the music stand was a handwritten piece titled:
“For My Daisy.”
It was beautiful and complex.
But it stopped halfway through the second page.
He had run out of time.
