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“The community response has been overwhelming,” Emily says softly. “After the news segment aired, Family First received calls from three other cities wanting to implement similar programs.”
I keep reading, my chest growing tighter with each message. Parents are writing about how their kids can’t stop talking about music now, how they’ve never seen them so excited about anything, and how the exposure has given them hope.
Then I see little Emma’s email. It’s simple, the way only kids can be:
‘Dear Mr. Nate and Miss. Lacey,
Thank you for letting me be on TV! My grandma cried when she saw me playing the drums. She said she’s never seen me smile so big. I practice every day. Maybe someday I can be in a band like you.
Love, Emma
P.S. Don’t forget I want to be friends with your babies.’
Attached is a photo of her beaming behind one of the drum sets, her hair a little wild, holding the sticks like I showed her.
“Lacey insisted the footage be sent to local news stations only,” Emily explains, watching my face carefully. “She didn’t sell it or sensationalize it. She just... let them tell the story. The real story.”
I set the iPad down, my hands unsteady. “How much?”
“What?”
“The donations. How much came in?”
Emily’s eyes soften. “Enough to fund the program for three years. Plus, startup costs for two more locations.”
The weight of it hits me like a physical blow. All this time, I’d been so angry about the invasion of privacy, about the cameras, about exposing the children’s vulnerabilities. But while I was busy being furious, these kids loved being on TV. Loved being seen. They were finding their voices and their courage—their dreams.
And Lacey... she saw that possibility before I did.
“She was trying to help,” Emily says quietly. “In her own way. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but her heart was in the right place.”
I lean back, closing my eyes. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”
“A little bit, yeah.” I can hear the smile in Emily’s voice. “But you can still fix it.”
“Can I?” The question comes out rougher than I intended.
“That depends,” Emily says.
“On what?”
She gives me a pointed look. “On whether you’re willing to admit you were wrong. And if you’re able to admit that somewhere along the way, this fake engagement turned into something very real—“
I nod, pocketing my phone. Some mistakes you can’t take back with a simple phone call. Even if every fiber of your being wants to try.
“Emily.” My voice comes out rough. “I need you to clear my schedule for the next few days.”
She’s already pulling out her phone. “Going to California?”
“Yeah.” I stand, energy suddenly coursing through me. “Book me on the next flight to L.A.”
“What about the radio interview tomorrow?”
“Reschedule it.” I’m already moving, grabbing my jacket. “There’s also supposed to be a meet and greet with the sponsors—“
“I’ll handle it.” Her fingers fly over her phone screen. “There’s a red-eye leaving in two hours. I can get you on it if you hurry.”
“Do it.”