“I don’t want her twisting what she sees.”
“She’ll twist it anyway. This is who we are.”
I cleaned, but didn’t stage. The magnet-covered fridge stayed. The messy shoe rack stayed.
She arrived the next day, perfectly on time, camel coat, heels clicking against our crooked walkway. Perfume hit me before she did. She walked in without hello, looked around, and grabbed the doorframe like she needed balance.
“Oh my God! What is this?”
Her eyes swept across the secondhand couch, scuffed coffee table, crayon marks along the baseboards. She paused at Aaron’s green handprints outside his room. In the corner sat the upright piano — lacquer worn, pedal squeaking, one key stuck.
Aaron walked in with a juice box, glanced at her, then at the piano. He climbed onto the bench and began to play. Chopin. The same piece she had drilled into me until my hands went numb.
“Where did he learn that?” she asked quietly. “He asked. So I taught him.”
Aaron climbed down, holding a drawing. “I made you something.”
It showed our family on the 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.”
She took it carefully. “We don’t yell here,” Aaron added. “Daddy says yelling makes the house forget how to breathe.”
