Mrs. Patterson made a small noise. When everyone looked at her, her face had gone pale. She looked like she might be sick.
“I don’t talk about it at school,” Lily continued. “I don’t talk about Mom or the piano or any of it. It hurts too much. And also…”
She paused, looking down at her worn shoes.
“Kids don’t really like you when you’re poor. They already think I’m weird because my clothes are old and I don’t have a phone or anything. If I told them I used to play piano in recitals, they’d think I was making it up or showing off. So I just stay quiet.”
“Is that why you never volunteered in class?” Mr. Rodriguez asked. “Even though you clearly love music?”
Lily nodded.
“I thought if I stayed invisible, it wouldn’t hurt so much. If nobody knew about the piano, I wouldn’t have to think about Mom being gone. I wouldn’t have to remember what I lost.”
“But you looked at the piano in class,” Mr. Rodriguez said. “Mrs. Patterson noticed.”
“I couldn’t help it.”
Fresh tears spilled down Lily’s cheeks.
“It’s the same kind of piano Mom played. A Steinway grand. Sometimes I just look at it and remember her hands on the keys. Remember sitting next to her on the bench, trying to reach the pedals with my little feet. Remember her perfume and the way she’d hum along when I played something right.”