The brass plate was no larger than my palm.
Thomas had engraved two names in his careful block lettering.
ELEANOR.
REBECCA.
Beside each name was a tiny musical note.
No legal language.
No dates.
No grand declaration.
Just our names.
And suddenly I remembered another detail.
Rebecca’s first recital.
She had been nine.
She had cried in the car because she missed one measure and was convinced everyone in the auditorium had noticed.
Thomas had taken her back into the house after we got home, sat her at that piano, and asked her to play the piece again.
She refused.
So I played it badly on purpose.
Rebecca had laughed so hard she forgot to be embarrassed.
Thomas had stood behind us saying, “There. Now both my girls belong at that piano.”
I closed my eyes.
The memory landed with such force that for one second I could hear his voice more clearly than anyone in the room.
Then Rebecca said, “Mom, stand up.”
Not angrily this time.
Almost pleading.
I opened my eyes.
She looked terrified.
“Why?” I asked.
Her gaze fell to the brass plate.
“Because you don’t understand.”
“Then help me.”
She shook her head.
I waited.
Rebecca looked around the room.
Every relative was watching her now.
The attention she had accused me of manipulating had finally arrived, and for once I had done nothing to create it.
“Can everyone please go home?”
Margaret crossed her arms.
“No.”
Rebecca stared at her.
“This is my house.”
There it was again.
My house.
Margaret’s jaw tightened.
“And that is your mother.”
Rebecca flinched.
I got slowly to my feet, using the piano bench for support.
Sophie stood beside me.
Without thinking, she took my hand.
Rebecca saw it.
Something in her expression broke for half a second.
