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“Yeah, it was. My dad wasn’t thrilled. He thought it was sissy for a boy, especially as I grew older. He wanted me to play football like he did.”

“You couldn’t do both? Your schedule was that strict?”

I frowned. “Yeah, practice was time-consuming, but my mom also wouldn’t let me play any sport that might result in hurting my arms or fingers.” I grinned at her. “I became a really good swimmer as a result.”

I caught her eyeing me up and down leisurely. “It appeared to have paid off,” she said with a flirtatious grin. Then she grew quiet again, her eyes blinking more than normal as if she was holding back her emotions for the childhood I’d had. “But it still seems like a lot of pressure, unless it’s what you wanted to do. Is that why you don’t play anymore? You grew to hate it?”

“In a way. I did like playing, but it quit being fun and just became a lot of pressure. The more I played, the better I got, and the more she pushed. It didn’t take long before I knew it wasn’t what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. But I guess my mom was living her life vicariously through me and never stopped to ask me if it was what I wanted. I guess I played my part too well, and she honestly thought I loved it. I started complaining, but I think she thought I was just a petulant teenager, so she mostly ignored it.”

“You said she was a concert pianist?”

I nodded. “She was. She played with the Charlotte Symphony Orchestra as well as solo events until she got pregnant with me. She’d been groomed for it from the time she was a child.” I paused and shook my head, trying to find the words to describe how I remembered my mother’s talent. “Lots of people can make a piano play music. My mom . . . she could actually make it sing, like it was an extension of her voice. You didn’t need words to hear the emotion she was able to portray with the keyboard. I guess . . . I guess it sort of was her way of communicating. So when she thought I shared her talent, I think pushing me was a way to build me up to be someone who understood her better than others; speak the language, so to speak.”

Jen looked almost moved to tears. “Wow, Tyler. That’s a beautiful way to describe it. So, did she keep playing concerts?”

I shook my head. “Having a baby isn’t all that conducive to practices and concerts unless you have a nanny, and my mom wasn’t willing to turn her baby over to another person to raise, so she gave it all up. All those years of working so hard to achieve a level of success as a musician and she walked away from it, for me.”

She held my gaze, sympathy etched on her face, but also some confusion. I’m sure she was struggling to understand why I quit playing. “I’m sure that was hard, but it sounds very commendable to me. She made you a priority.”

“I think so, too, but it also had to have been difficult. Playing at that level is so much more than just playing music. It’s a lifestyle, and one that she had adopted since she was a child. It’s the only way to become that successful. So she had to learn to cope, and eventually, I think teaching me became her coping tool.”

She had been absentmindedly twisting a strand of hair around her finger, but unwound it when I paused. “What about your dad?” she asked softly.

A flash of anger raced through me, automatically making me frown. I tried to neutralize it, but she obviously saw it because she settled her legs closer to me and laid one of her hands on my thigh. I drew in a deep breath, knowing the story was going to get more complicated, and she might not like where it went. “I think he was happier about my mom giving up concert playing than he was about my birth. My dad is a lawyer, and at the time he was working hard to make a name for himself, and that included schmoozing with the partners. I think he was proud of her in his own way, but he thought my mom, who was beautiful, should be by his side since the partners looked with more favor at a family man. And a baby fit right in with that.

“Sort of like Mark,” she blanched.

I might not agree with my dad on a lot of things, but I couldn’t let her continue with that comparison. “No.” I shook my head. “We may have issues, but I’d never go that far. My dad never hit my mom, nor did he ever raise his voice to her. But I think he thought the more he could provide for her, the happier she’d be. So he worked harder and longer hours, eventually making partner, but his achievements never seemed to matter to my mom, and I guess he just grew angry over it.”

“You mean whatever he did was never good enough for her?” she asked.

“No, I don’t think it was that so much, as it just wasn’t important to her.”

We were both quiet for a few minutes. I could tell there was something on her mind by the way her fingers were kneading the skin on my thigh. “What are you thinking, kitten? Go ahead and ask.”

She looked at me, little lines of worry puckering up the center of her forehead. “Do you think she resented giving it all up? For you?” She pulled my hand nearest to her in between the two of hers.

My heart lurched that she felt such compassion for Tyler the child, even though she never knew him. I entwined my larger fingers with hers. “No, I don’t think she regretted having me, but I think she really missed the music world. The problem was it was so separate from my father’s world. The two of them never figured out how to blend their lives.”

“So why don’t you play the piano anymore?”

I detangled myself from her and walked to the window and stared at nothing in particular. The rest was difficult enough to say without seeing her sympathetic eyes staring back at me. I didn’t deserve her compassion. “I was seventeen. I was in a bad mood. I’d just come home from school, and my mom was pestering me to practice.” I could hear the ugliness I felt manifesting itself in the harshness of my voice. “I had a small concert coming up, but it was a bit of a big deal because mom had talked to a few of her friends, including the conductor from the symphony to attend. She hoped they would be interested in asking me to perform with them for a special youth concert. I just wanted to hang out with Alex and Brandon. I was feeling particularly resentful that day.”

Jen got up and stood so she could wrap her arms around me. I started to peel them off, but she clung even tighter. “Tell me, Tyler. I promise I’m right here for you. Just like you were for me.”

“I told my mom I didn’t want to practice,” I choked. “I told her I was sick and tired of it and it wasn’t what I wanted to do. I just wanted to be a normal teen that got to hang out with his friends.” I felt Jen’s head nod against my back, but she didn’t say anything.

“She started to brush me aside and gathered up the sheet music. I got pissed, Jen, really pissed. She wouldn’t listen. So I slammed the lid down over the keys and flung the music in the air. I yelled at her, actually yelled, saying I didn’t want to be a fucking musician.” I realized I was yelling nearly as loud as I had that day.

I could recall a lot of memories from childhood, but over time the details weren’t sharp as if they were shrouded behind a gossamer veil. But I could recall that particular day with excruciating clarity. I yanked away from Jen, starting to shake as the anger I’d felt that day started to build again, only this time guilt was its evil companion. I stalked over to the piano, the same one I’d learned to hate and braced my arms against the closed lid of the main body of the instrument. “My mother seemed to be in shock. I remember she sat down on the bench and started rubbing her head. She looked a bit pale, but she asked what it was I wanted to do instead. I told her that I loved science and wanted to learn more, maybe go into research or something. Then I walked out of the room.”

Jen had followed me, sitting down on the piano bench in much the same position as my mother had been sitting. “That’s not an awful thing, Tyler,” she whispered.

“No?” I barked. “How is it not awful to know you broke your mother’s heart? How is it not awful to know that you walked out on the person that gave you life, only to come back into the room a few minutes later to apologize and find her laying on the floor—unconscious?” I was shouting again, yelling at the past choice I could never take back.