The address was across town, in a neighborhood I’d never visited.
I couldn’t stop wondering—had Robert been hiding another life? Another woman? The thought made me sick. Still, I called a taxi. The driver chatted about the weather, but I couldn’t hear him over the roaring in my head.
For illustrative purposes only
We drove nearly an hour until we reached a brick building with a green door. I stood on the sidewalk for a long time, torn between turning back and needing to know. Finally, I unlocked the door.
The smell hit me instantly—polished wood, old paper, sheet music. A music room.
In the center stood a beautiful upright piano. The walls were lined with shelves of sheet music, recordings, and books. On the piano bench sat neatly stacked sheets. I picked one up: “Clair de Lune” by Debussy—my favorite. Another piece on the stand was “Moonlight Sonata.”
On a small table nearby were labeled recordings: “For Daisy – December 2018.” “For Daisy – March 2020.” Dozens of them, spanning years.
Beside them lay medical reports: “Diagnosis: severe heart condition. Prognosis: limited time.” Robert had known.
There was also a contract with the building caretaker, instructing him to deliver the flowers and envelope to me on the first Valentine’s Day after Robert’s death. He had planned everything.
Then I found a journal. The first entry was 25 years old:
“Today, Daisy mentioned her old piano. She said, ‘I used to dream of being a pianist, playing in concert halls. But life had other plans.’ She laughed, but I saw the sadness in her eyes.”
