I came home a month early from tour, dreaming of pasta, candles, and my husband’s embrace. Instead, I found two young girls in my bedroom, one plucking my ukulele with sticky fingers, the other surrounded by my scattered music notebooks. Shock hit me before anger. Moments later, David appeared, guilt written all over his face.
He explained the girls, Mila and Riley, were the daughters of a coworker who needed emergency childcare. He’d agreed to help for a week. I was furious—my music room had become a daycare without my knowledge—but beneath my anger lingered his confession: he wanted to know what parenting felt like. I’d always brushed off the idea of kids, focused on my career, but hearing him admit that shook me.
That week was chaos—screams, cereal spills, and sticky fingerprints everywhere. My mornings of quiet coffee and Bach were replaced with a circus. But one afternoon, when Mila asked to listen to me practice violin, something shifted. She hummed along perfectly in tune. Soon, Riley joined with the ukulele, and before I knew it, we were a band.
We rehearsed daily—Mila singing with soulful precision, Riley drumming on spoons and cushions, me weaving violin notes through their rhythm. David started lingering in the doorway, watching with pride. By Friday, we performed together, filling the house with music and laughter.
When Julie returned, the girls hugged us like family. Riley even handed me a drawing of us onstage under the words: The Best Band Ever. My heart ached as they left, the silence suddenly too heavy.
That evening, on the porch at sunset, I asked David: “If we revisited that conversation… how many kids were you thinking?” His grin was answer enough. For the first time, I was ready to listen.
