"Family special," Ethan James Mercer said. "Older than both of us. Still plays better than your jokes."
Sophia, in the doorway, applauded softly. The boy flushed and found somewhere else to be. Ethan returned to his etude, the exchange already becoming compost for something tougher than pride.
Midway through the intensive, parents' weekend arrived. Richard came by train with a small overnight bag and a face that looked less armored than the year before. He sat through a student recital in a folded chair, clapped for Sophia's group, and watched Ethan play a movement of Brahms with a maturity that made a woman in the next seat whisper, "How old is he?" Richard answered, without looking away, "Eleven going on the truth."
Afterward they walked city streets that smelled of rain and food carts. Ethan showed Richard the practice building, the bulletin board with schedules, the corner shop that sold overpriced strings. Richard listened as if maps of his son's world were a language he had enrolled in late but intended to pass.
"Your mother would have loved this city trip," Richard said at a crosswalk.
"She loved any place that had a window and a place to tune," Ethan said.
"I'm trying," Richard said, "to love the places you love without turning them into investments."