Bobby sat at the keyboard. His mother stood behind him and held her breath. He curled his fist, allowing one finger to point down. With the swiftness of a sparrowhawk, it plunged to an ivory slab. Da-wang! The errant digit struck a nearby black key on its way to the ivory. The loud discord echoed through the small apartment.

Okay. So. Bobby was not going to be a musical genius. They had spent many hours on this bench, ever since he could sit up, his small hands clasped within hers as they touched the worn, well-loved piano. Two years later, he showed absolutely no aptitude whatsoever.

Just as his other hand came down to join the first, Corleen plucked her son from the bench. Discouraged and in tears, she placed the child within his playpen. Bobby’s attention became riveted with the cartoon pattern beneath him.

Corleen stumbled to the kitchen. A bottle of wine was removed from the refrigerator, a cork was popped and a delicate glass was filled. As she had been doing for the last handful of years, she drank. So much of her life had been disappointing. Her faltering career as a concert pianist, cut short by a foolish tryst. Her son, brain-damaged in the womb. Her mind-numbing, double-shift factory work.

As his mother sat in the next room, Bobby softly hummed one of the tunes she had been teaching him. His voice was in perfect pitch. Corleen was already too far gone to hear.

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