Then came sobs, sharp and sudden. She gasped for air, trying to muffle it. “Mom,” I said gently. “Do you want me to come over?”
Silence. Then a broken sound. “No. I just needed you to know I saw it. That’s all.”
She hung up.
The next morning, I found an envelope under the doormat. Inside was a music store gift card and a note in her precise handwriting: “For Aaron. Let him play because he wants to.”
I stood in the doorway, the note in my palm, light washing across the floor. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel broken. It wasn’t closure. Not yet.
But maybe it was something better. Maybe it was the beginning of something new.
