Lily’s small fingers hovered over the piano keys, her face tense with concentration. I watched her, a swell of pride in my chest. “Take your time, sweetheart,” I encouraged softly. She nodded, her smile uncertain, then began to play. The melody was simple, with a few missed notes, but I could see her effort.

When she finished, I clapped. “Great job!” I said, hugging her. “You’re getting better every day.”

The doorbell rang, signaling my parents’ arrival. After dinner, Lily asked, “Can I play now?” My heart tightened as I nodded. She played, her hands shaking slightly. My mother laughed softly, and my father’s booming chuckle followed. I froze, pain stabbing through me as I saw Lily’s face fall.

“Was that your first time?” my mother asked, her tone sharp. Lily stammered, “I-I’ve had two lessons.” My father scoffed, “A dog could do better.” Anger flared in me, but I stayed calm. “She’s just starting,” I defended. “She’s doing great.”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” my mother chided. “We’re just having fun.” But their “fun” was crushing my daughter, just as it had crushed me years ago.

“Mom, Dad, it’s time for you to leave,” I said firmly. Shocked, they left without another word. I turned to find Lily in tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. I hugged her tight. “No, baby, you did amazing.”

The next morning, we sat at the piano together. “Let’s try again,” I said. This time, the music was stronger, more confident. We would be okay. We’d be just fine.