Sophia peeked from behind him, hopeful and nervous.
I smiled. “Ask the owner of the piano.”
Every adult looked at Patricia.
She wiped her eyes again. “Yes. Yes, of course. Please.”
Sophia slipped into the living room, small hands clasped in front of her velvet dress. She approached the upright piano near the window as though it were a sleeping animal. Patricia moved to lift the fallboard, but Sophia did it herself with careful confidence.
“What should I play?” she asked me.
“Whatever feels right.”
She sat, feet dangling above the pedals, and began “Silent Night.”
The first notes were tentative. Then stronger. Her gift had always been this quiet doorway into emotion. She played as snow drifted beyond the windows, as adults stood scattered among garlands and half-wrapped truths, as Marcus saw his daughter not as proof or consequence but as a person.
Olivia and Ethan came in next, followed by Rachel and Noah. My children gathered around the piano, singing softly, imperfectly, beautifully.
