Chapter Three -
Part One: Daddy Forgot to be Mad.
Sunday Arrival
The following Sunday, after church, the Cartwrights’ beat-up farm truck rattled through the draw, coughing dust before jerking to a stop. They followed us home every other week, like clockwork. The kids tumbled from the truck bed, wild as hounds on a scent, charging toward the orchard. Spring turned them feral—ripping blossoms, slathering in mud, skidding through plowed fields, joy reckless and uncontained. Summer set them loose—whooping, laughing, raiding the garden, snatching apples, kicking up dirt like wild things.
Two of them matched my age—Bobby and Sam, thirteen and twelve. Bobby sat across from me in class. We barely noticed each other unless the whole Cartwright clan descended on our place. Still, Bobby ignored me, drawn to my more interesting brothers. They stood in a huddle, heads bent, talking football like it was Christ’s gospel.
This week, I was glad they’d come over. Their chatter drowned out my parents’ tension, their laughter stretching through our storm-clouded house. Mama and Daddy moved without slicing each other with glares without bitterness thickening the air. We pretended all was well. Pretending made things easier. Pretending kept us breathing. Pretending stopped the fights—until it didn’t.
🍽️ Dinner and Distraction
One family or another usually tagged along after church, rolling in just in time for Sunday dinner. Today, the Cartwrights brought a casserole—bread, canned veggies, and a scrap of bacon. Mama fried chicken. We piled the table high with mashed potatoes, green beans snapped fresh from the vine, biscuits hot from the oven, and chilled milk. For dessert, I popped sweet apples into the oven. Amid biscuit and apple aromas, I pondered which to choose before slipping off with a book to my apple tree hideaway. I snatched both, plotting my escape before the Cartwrights packed up and rolled out.
But Mama called me back to the kitchen. Guess who scrubs dishes every Sunday afternoon. Me. Always me.
Billy and I traded off after our oversized, thrice-daily meals, but I ended up at the sink more often than I cared to count.
As usual, Daddy and Brother Cartwright stomped out to the barn, rattled the old John Deere, and strolled through the garden—now wrecked by rowdy kids. Like always, the men huddled up, swapping wisdom, trading theories, kicking tires, fixing the whole-damn-world one story at a time.
🎖️ Veteran's Day Sunday
Today’s after-dinner visit took a different turn. Next to Easter and Christmas, the most important Sunday of the year was “Veterans Day Sunday,” held closest to November 11th. The conversation shifted to planning. Sister Cartwright led.
My gut coiled tight, like something waited to destruct. Daddy didn’t like turning the church into a stage. But Sister Cartwright didn’t notice—or didn’t care. She never quit. Every year, same question, same expectant tone. Like this time, Daddy wouldn’t shut her down.
“Pastor Johnson, should we have a treasure hunt for the children?” She asked, voice bright, eyes challenging.
Daddy didn’t pause. “No.”
She smiled, squared her shoulders, and locked eyes with him. “Well. I reckon we can have a hunt in the park on Saturday with the Brownsville church folks.” She pushed harder, breezing past his silence, nudging him toward a Sunday skit for the veterans. Pastor Johnson never smiled, never nodded, but he didn’t shush her either. The session continued, rolling into other special Sundays.
I’d finished the dishes when the talk turned to Easter plans. Christmas got ignored—Daddy guarded it too tightly. Sister Cartwright held back, letting him take the reins.
But Easter? “We can sketch things out ahead of time.” She thrived on the fussing, the organizing, the imagining.
“Billy’s gonna sing again, right? That boy’s got a voice straight from heaven. And your Elizabeth will play our piano this next time, right?”
She grinned at me, fully aware her own hymn-playing sent folks straight to their knees—not in worship, but in pain. They bowed their heads, praying—not for divine wisdom, but for mercy on the piano. And on their headaches.
Yep, that bad.
She knew I’d been punished for taking lessons without permission. Still, she pushed. “Elizabeth should really play, Pastor. She’s talented. It’s a waste of God’s gift when she doesn’t. And a waste for all of us who’d like to participate in her gift.”
Every chance she got, Sister Cartwright worked like a kitchenware seller with a quota, determined to get me behind that piano. In her opinion, I belonged there. But Daddy thought it best to keep the elder saints busy workin’ for the Lord.
He said, “Lizzy’s young and I don’t want her thinkin’ too highly of herself. Pride’s a sin.” His words landed like a gavel—no argument, no appeal.
So, I played only when Sister Cartwright missed church. I stood in as the backup pianist. It kept me tucked away, out of the spotlight—and out of Daddy’s line of fire.
This time, Daddy surprised us. “I reckon Lizzy can play a special song at Easter Sunrise.” His voice quiet. Like he’d stopped being mad.
Well, I reckoned next Easter, at dawn’s first light, I’d pound out “Christ Arose” on that black-as-sin honkytonk piano. It perched near Daddy’s pulpit, waiting to confess. Hauled straight from Harry’s sin-laden bar, it grinned at me through every service.
I loved that old piano. But I knew not to play unless invited. Every time I got near, Daddy’s eyes lit up like fireworks with a short fuse. His war with Uncle Harry never cooled. And Harry’s big mouth never quieted—telling Daddy he gave me piano lessons at his bar.
🎹 War Begins
I was ten the first time I wandered across Hall Street, slipping out of the library and into the furniture store next to Uncle Harry’s Bar and Grill.
A piano sat in the window—mahogany, gleaming, impossible to ignore. I pressed a key. Pushed another. The sound curled through the room like a secret.
I peeked around the room to see if anyone objected to my noise.
No one paid attention. My stomach relaxed.
Through the window, I watched Mama step into the Lady’s Missionary Society office. She would’ve stopped my noise-making. I was sure.
Harry spotted me from the bar’s doorway.
Strolled over.
“Want me to play a little tune for you?”
I nodded.
Harry’s music poured from the piano—sweet, strong.
Customers drifted closer.
Store owners leaned in.
Even the furniture seemed to listen.
“You want to learn?” he asked, wiping his hands on a towel older than me.
I nodded again.
“Come Saturday mornings. During your library hour. Half an hour. You’ll be back before your mama finishes her meeting.”
I played too long.
Got lost in the keys.
When I looked up—
Mama and Harry stood in tense conversation outside the Missionary doorway.
I ducked behind the piano.
Hoped to vanish.
Run to the library.
Didn’t work.
Mama spotted me.
Headed my way like a hen chasing a bug.
Harry caught up.
Their voices followed—low, sharp, urgent.
And—
Harry smiled.
Shook Mama’s hand.
Mama turned.
Stalked into the library.
Why?
She’d seen me playing.
She knew.
I crept in behind her.
Slumped through the rows.
Picked up my books.
Stood silent beside her.
She glanced at me—serious eyes.
Herded me out the door.
Somehow, Harry had warded her off.
Away from the store.
Away from me.
And the secret we now shared.
I would be taking lessons.
From the very person Daddy despised.
Harry and I never spoke of Daddy.
Or Mama.
We didn’t have to.
Harry knew.
I knew.
Daddy would never allow it.
No lessons.
Not music.
Especially not from Harry.
And Mama?
I couldn’t fathom her conversation.
Or why she turned away from the piano and walked into the library like nothing had happened.
Harry’s fingers could summon storms or unveil heaven.
Everyone in the county knew it.
But Daddy only saw sin in those notes—
Temptation wrapped in melody.
He called Harry’s music bait for the damned.
Said it lured souls into whiskey and ruin.
Away from their jobs.
Away from their churches.
Pride was the worst of it. Harry played as if he were proud. Daddy preached like pride was poison.
Every Sunday evening, Daddy stood outside Harry’s bar, Bible in hand, voice booming.
He hurled scripture through the open windows, trying to drown out the music. But Harry never stopped playing.
And I kept slipping across the street.
🔥 The Fuse
I knew I shouldn’t say yes when Harry asked if I wanted to learn.
The rules were clear—Daddy’s, God’s, the ones etched into Sunday sermons and Mama’s quiet warnings.
But the sound… it curled around me like warm bread and butter, like something I’d been starving for.
I nodded.
Not bold. Not brave. Just helpless.
The kind of yes that trembles in your throat and feels like a sin before it’s even spoken. I almost saw the punishment waiting—Daddy’s fury, Mama’s tears, even Hell itself.
But I couldn’t say no. Not to the piano. Not to the way it made my chest puff full and light all at once.
So, at ten, I lit the fuse. One nod, and the war between Daddy and Harry flared hotter.
My heart thudded as I slid onto the bench, fingers hovering over the keys. The first note rang out, and heaven opened beneath my hands.
💔 The Piano Vanishes
One day the piano vanished.
I walked in, expecting the usual—mahogany shine, ivory keys, my sanctuary. Instead, a girl stood there, my age, or younger, fingers grazing the keys like she already owned them.
She smiled.
I didn’t.
Harry watched from the tavern window, unmoving.
He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just waited.
I stepped closer. The piano was hers. Not mine. My music lessons, gone.
The sky didn’t fall. It collapsed inward, like lungs refusing air.
🎹 A New Piano – A New Secret
I bolted.
Tears smeared the storefront glass, the sidewalk, the world. My breath shattered into shards.
The space where my piano had lived now held a cabinet—hulking, polished, heartless.
God had found me. And this was hell. Not fire. Not brimstone. Just silence where music used to be.
Harry caught my arm—firm, gentle. “Hey, Lizzy,” he said, voice like smoke slipping through cracks. “I’ve got a big ole piano next door in my bar. How about you play there this time?”
I wiped my face with my coat sleeve, breath still hitching. Harry’s hand stayed—steady, not pulling. Just there.
The tavern door stood open behind him.
Music drifted out—low, slow, familiar.
But underneath it, the air carried something else: sour beer, sharp smoke, laughter that didn’t sound kind.
I hesitated at the threshold.
The piano waited inside.
So did everything Daddy hated.
My shoes scuffed the sidewalk.
Harry didn’t rush me.
Inside, the piano loomed—larger than the one in the store, its keys worn soft at the edges. It grinned in the dim light like it knew I’d come.
I stepped in.
The floor creaked.
Someone glanced up, but looked away.
Harry nodded toward the bench.
I sat.
The first note trembled out.
Noise behind me faded.
Just me and the music now.
And maybe God, listening from somewhere unexpected. False hope. I knew it. They’d find out, eventually.
But I couldn’t say no.
🔥 The War Escalates
Still, Daddy and Harry’s war raged—honkytonk music battling street preaching.
Later, Harry leaned close, voice wrapped in urgency. “Lizzy, practice every chance you get. If another piano shows up at the store, we’ll move your lessons back.”
His voice sharpened. “But for now—it’s the bar. I hope they get a piano soon. This bar’s no place for a kid.”
I understood his edginess—my own nerves sharp, scratching at the edges of my fear.
The wrongness. The risk. The way it could crumble in an instant. What if Daddy finds out?
That Sunday night, Daddy’s voice shook the street—a rolling storm front battering Harry’s tavern with warnings of Hellfire. Bible raised high.
Harry burrowed into revenge, carving out his plan. A man set on destruction.
One Saturday morning, he woke up different—lighter, shoulders squared, smile stretched too wide and stuck to his face.
He schemed. He taught me new hymns.
As their feud escalated, Harry changed. His warmth twisted cold, clipped, calculated. I wasn’t a student anymore—I was a tool.
He turned bitter. Devious.
He steered me away from the furniture store’s new piano. “Play here,” he said, voice dry as dust. “That new piano’s not yours. It’ll be gone soon.”
He shifted—slow, stiff—like something inside him splintered. “Stick to this one. It stays.”
The bar stank of old beer and forgotten dust-filled corners. Harry looked hollowed out, like the place had started eating him. Whatever clung to him wasn’t just weariness—it was rot.
❄️ The Recital Looms
Along came the recital war.
The word alone sent ice through me.
Ask Daddy for permission? No. No, no, no.
“No, Uncle Harry. I want to play because it’s fun. I don’t want to play in front of people. And I don’t want to tell Daddy about the lessons.”
Morning light leaked through the bar windows—jaundiced, thin—pooling around Harry and the piano like a warning.
I sat.
The keys felt cold.
Harry watched—too close, too quiet, his stare like a held breath. Each note landed wrong, like the piano remembered things I hadn’t played.
It pulled at me. Bent the music. Bent me.
This wasn’t performance. It was ritual. To him, my playing wasn’t sound.
It was submission. His weapon of revenge against Daddy.
But I didn’t know.
After practice, he said, “Lizzy, your lessons, your effort—it all has a purpose. You’re the best student I’ve ever taught. Someday, you’ll play in a big church. One of those grand chapels over in Brownsville. I’ll look into it. We’ll plan your recital.”
He hadn’t heard me say no. My whole being shook. I knew God would reveal my wicked ways.
Now I stood trapped.
🧨 The Trap Tightens
For three nights, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Sleep abandoned. Heavy waves of alarm crushed me.
Harry didn’t see a flaw in his plan.
But I did. His words unraveled me. The walls closed in.
By morning, my skull throbbed. My gut coiled tight. I saw no way out.
It took me too long to see it—
Too long to understand what Harry planned.
My breath hitched when I figured it out.
No escape. The recital loomed like an execution date.
One day, he said, “Let’s save these new hymns as a surprise for your recital. We’ll have it over in Brownsville at that big church you go to. It’ll be next month. I’ve set it up with the preacher. I told him it was a surprise for your dad.”
I almost vomited. He plans to let Daddy know where and how I learned to play.
What’s wrong with him?
Tension built in my chest. Just thinking about the recital hurt. I froze, grasping at any thread of action.
Harry planned it for my twelfth birthday. As if it were a gift. It felt like a trap.
I wasn’t sure I’d live through it. The question kept cycling through my mind:
Why is he pushing this?
He hates Daddy. Hates his street preaching.
What makes him think this will end well?
What in heaven makes him think this will work?
Does he think Daddy will be glad I learned to play and forgive him?
Forgive me?
Does he not know his brother?
⚡ The Refusal
The following Saturday, I skipped the library. Marched into Harry’s bar, chin out. Found him mopping dust off the keys.
“Harry, I won’t do it. Daddy will come down on me with every ton of thunder and lightning God has in heaven. No recital. Period. I won’t do it.”
Harry studied me. He sat on the piano stool, ran a hand through his hair. “Ok, little niece. You’re off the hook. But I don’t think he’d be as scary as you’re imagining. I think he’ll get over it in time. He’ll be glad you learned to play. Your Mama too.”
I pushed the worry aside. Harry didn’t know his brother. But Mama? Why would he even mention her? If Daddy was mad about my lessons, she’d be even worse,
accuse me of causing a ruckus in our lives.
While Daddy and Harry kept their quarrel alive, I ignored their grown-up nonsense.
He dreamed up a new plan and thought his plan was clever. Thought it wouldn’t backfire. Sadly, he never saw Daddy’s fury aimed at me instead of himself. He didn’t consider that Daddy would judge me—
And forever see me as the tainted daughter.
🎂 The Birthday Sentence
On my twelfth birthday, my piano career ended. Harry broke the news to Daddy—he’d taught me to play.
Daddy called it a crime. Sentenced me to piano silence.
I learned fast:
Learning from Uncle Harry made me a traitor.
And Daddy never forgave traitors.
I learned something else—
Daddy holds grudges, even against his own kids.
I’m thirteen now, two weeks from fourteen.
Sometimes I stare in the mirror, searching for proof I’ve outgrown my sins. Hoping I’ve become better than when I was at ten. But I see only Daddy’s disloyal daughter.
That’s how he sees me.
Even now.
Daddy and Uncle Harry still toss dirty looks over that old piano.
🙏 The Feud Deepens
Grownups puzzle me.
Especially the Christian ones.
They preach one thing and do another.
At least, that’s what I’ve noticed.
🎹 Harry’s Honkytonk Piano Goes to Church
Truth is, their feud simmered long before the piano lessons.
It boiled over the day Daddy took to street preaching—bellowing fire and brimstone outside Uncle Harry’s honkytonk every Sunday evening.
Daddy carefully nursed his grudge against Harry and his tavern.
He scorched the air with sermons like God Himself had assigned him the job of banishing that bar to hell. But every Sunday, the bartender sloshed drinks for Harry’s faithful drunks, while the old piano banged out raucous tunes. Sometimes, out of pure spite, Harry pounded out old hymns in his special barroom style, just to hear Daddy holler his holy words even louder.
Under the open sky, Daddy waved his Bible like a sword, roaring hellfire at Harry’s patrons as they staggered in and out—drunk and doomed.
Now and again, a poor liquored-up soul hit the dirt, moaning like a fallen saint.
Daddy’s eyes lit up as if he’d found salvation himself.
He dropped to his knees, arms raised, praying so loud the whole village—sloshed or sober—smelled of sulfur.
His voice carried into the bar, warning Uncle Harry and his minions. Their judgment day was scheduled. They were next in line for Hell’s flames. The quarrel erupted into a full-scale war.
One night, Harry burst from his bar, carpenter’s hammer swinging. He roared at Daddy to take his preaching elsewhere.
As brothers, they figured God had split the workload:
- Harry liquored up lost souls, creating dedicated sinners.
- Daddy pelted brimstone at those souls, converting them to saints.
- Each brother guarded his territory and protected his followers.
They cussed and yelled that Sunday night.
Daddy’s fists threatened combat.
Harry’s hammer promised revenge.
They stomped away—insides boiling, furious.
⛪ The Discount Store Cathedral
That’s when Daddy took his calling serious.
He quit street preaching.
Took to pulpit-pounding.
The morning after their sidewalk fight, he rented the sagging, half-dead discount department store building—a stone’s throw from Harry’s tavern on Hall Street.
He cranked up his old flatbed, rattled down to the shuttered movie house in Brownsville, and loaded it with beaten-up wooden theater seats.
He hauled them back and set them in rows.
Scrap cedar from the sawmill became the hand-built stage, sinner’s altar, and Daddy’s pulpit.
Just like that, the Discount Store Cathedral was born—dusty, drafty, and holy enough to make Daddy proud.
It smelled of old dust and fresh-cut lumber.
It felt like Satan was chained in a corner.
And echoed as hollow and empty as every fresh-born church.
On Saturday morning, Daddy painted the store’s big double doors blood red.
He planted a “Welcome” sign on the sidewalk.
Gossip tore through town faster than Sunday’s collection plate—straight to Harry’s bar. Harry’s buddies barged through his beer-soaked door, grins shining.
“Guess what, Harry? A new church is opening down the street, and the pastor has your last name!”
Harry frowned. “Where’s this happening?”
“Right down yonder. Have a look.” They laughed, slapped his back, led his red face outside, and pointed down Hall Street. “Look, Harry!”
Harry didn’t smile.
🧨 Harry’s Revenge
Their quarrel reignited.
First, Harry brooded.
Drank on it.
This new development needed perfect revenge.
It finally hit him—like a barstool on the head.
His revenge lived in Daddy’s own house.
He, proud owner of Harry’s Bar ‘n’ Grill, had taught her to play piano every Saturday morning.
And Daddy, now “Pastor Alton Johnson,” didn’t have a clue.
Harry knew Daddy didn’t understand how badly I needed music—how the thought of playing, of owning a piano, settled into my bones like hunger.
I didn’t think he’d ever pay for a piano, so I let myself dream.
Dreams cost nothing.
This one cost me everything.
Harry wasn’t done.
Would never be done.
Daddy’s voice—booming, condemning—had burrowed into him.
Now, revenge had burrowed too.
That street-preaching brother drove him mad.
He couldn’t shake the idea of spilling the secret.
So, he did.
🎭 The Reveal
No warning.
No defense.
At age twelve, I became a prisoner of war in Harry and Daddy’s battle.
Harry ratted me out.
But he waited for perfect timing.
That afternoon, my life shifted.
Whiskey-pickled, drunk on spite, Uncle Harry wrestled his honkytonk piano out of the bar—grumbling, cussing, nearly tipping it into the gutter before shoving it onto his pickup bed.
Smiling. Looking like the devil himself.
He gunned his truck toward Daddy’s storefront church—piano rattling, revenge bubbling.
He hauled that beast straight to the old Discount Department Store.
🚪 The Piano’s Reckoning
On the sidewalk stood a towering white sign. Blood-red letters slashed across it, announcing the new holy battleground:
The New Church of the Faithful
At the Discount-Store Cathedral
Sinners and Saints Welcome
Come One—Come All
Sundays, Wednesdays, and Fridays
Alton Johnson, Pastor
Harry clutched his sides, sucked in air, and bellowed, “The-Newly Reformed-Discount-Store-Church!”
His voice shot down the street, sharp enough to shake dust off old brick.
He threw back his head and laughed so hard he choked, gasping, staggering, clutching the blood-red sanctuary door like it might save him.
I stood on the sidewalk, watching the circus unfold, puzzled as to why Harry’s piano sat in his truck like yesterday’s trash.
Still coughing, still grinning like a possum, Harry seized that hunk of honkytonk and wheeled it through those blessed doors, daring heaven itself to object.
Hacking and wheezing, he swung the piano toward Daddy, who kneeled as if in repentance, hammering nails into the splintery altar like he was sealing coffins for sinners.
Time stopped.
Harry and Daddy locked eyes.
Dusting their hands on their pants, they called a silent truce.
Without a word, Daddy laid down planks to the stage—a quiet surrender.
Together, with one great heave, they shoved that hulking piano next to Daddy’s pulpit—where it belonged, in the war-torn house of the Lord.
🐍 The Trap Snaps Shut
Harry wasn’t done. He dusted off his hands with satisfaction. His gift to God came at a price.
He grinned.
His long-time scheme coiled like a serpent—fangs ready, venom dripping.
News of Lizzy’s lessons, the perfect revenge.
He thought it was clever. Thought it wouldn’t backfire.
But he never saw Daddy’s fury aiming at me instead of himself.
He didn’t consider that judgment would fall on me—
That I’d become the tainted daughter.
Until Daddy built his church, Harry never imagined my first performance would happen down the block—at his own brother’s church.
He hadn’t considered it until his taunting buddies showed him Daddy’s storefront cathedral.
That’s when his smirk faded, and the joke twisted into sharp revenge.
Harry handed Daddy that bar piano—his joke wrapped tight inside, razor-edged.
He gave more than just a gift.
He landed a wound.
A sick seed of suspicion that stuck and grew, never leaving Daddy’s mind.
Harry made sure of it.
He dragged the old piano down from the bar, grin creeping across his face. By the time Daddy helped shove the beast up the ramp, Harry’s trap had snapped shut.
He drew his kerchief across the keys, slow, deliberate. He slapped Daddy’s shoulder and grinned—a grin that held too much, knew too much.
Harry’s serpent fangs flashed open.
Precise. Eager.
Poison—revenge.
He patted his belly.
“I reckon it’s better to have your girl pounding on this piano here in your establishment instead of down the street in my bar. It never struck me right, her coming in on Saturday mornings for piano lessons. But I think you’ll be proud of her work.”
Silence followed.
Thick enough to suffocate.
Harry raised his chin.
“Your daughter’s become a fine piano player. She’s been learning and practicing on this old piano for quite a spell.”
He chuckled.
“I figure Lizzy’ll make a fine church pianist for you.”
So. He’d done it.
Harry expected rage.
A sermon laced with fury.
Instead, he got silence.
Daddy’s face hardened to etched stone.
No mercy.
His skin flushed the same red as the cedar planks on his altar.
I stepped through the back door.
Lightning split through Daddy’s gaze, lashing across Harry’s face—sharp, precise, a silent thrashing.
Daddy went pale.
Cold.
I shrank to the shadows. Lungs tight. Ears straining. Waiting.
The air thickened. Pulsed with anger too big to escape.
My earth tilted.
Breath hitched.
I couldn’t move.
Couldn’t swallow.
Couldn’t stop the dread curling like smoke, suffocating my lungs.
Harry’s grin cracked. Shattered. His throat worked against a swallow.
Daddy’s glare carved through him—Hard. Unrelenting.
The look that didn’t allow mercy. It meant trouble.
It meant Hell.
It dawned on Harry too late—far too late—what he’d done.
He’d baited Daddy. Fed their war with unholy fuel.
And hurled me as his fiercest javelin.
He sacrificed his own niece.
A child, now forever caught in the crossfire.
No undoing it now.
Harry bowed his head.
Clenched his teeth.
They didn’t see me.
I melted into the shadows, heart pounding, dreading Harry’s reckoning.
And mine.
Harry swallowed, gulped again, and kept talking.
“She begged to learn piano. I couldn’t refuse her. You’ll see—she’s talented. She’s only twelve. She’ll get better. Let her play. You’ll have a church pianist like no other. I brought this piano for the church. Now Lizzy can practice here. She won’t need to hang out at the tavern anymore.
Give her a chance before you go yelling and handing out punishments the Almighty reserves for Himself.”
I can’t describe how fierce Daddy looked.
And I don’t want to remember it.
Harry stretched out his hand—offering a truce, a lifeline.
Daddy didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
His body locked—frozen in something colder than fury.
Harry’s face blanched.
His voice turned raw.
“Let her play, Alton. She’s got a gift—one God Himself put in her hands.
If you bind it up, if you cast it aside, you’ll crush her spirit. You’ll have the Almighty to answer to.”
He finished. Quiet. Pleading.
Don’t do it. I know you. Don’t.”
Harry turned. Walked away. No longer smug.
Revenge gone.
He left Daddy standing there—humiliated beyond repair.
He left me standing there.
Because the mess wasn’t his anymore.
It was mine.
🧠 Part Two - The Fall
At twelve, I already knew—
There was only a reckoning.
No mercy.
No forgiveness.
I would never play in church.
Not now.
Not ever.
I stumbled through the dark hall. Light blurred through tears. Breath shallow. Feet unsteady.
I never saw the coat rack until I collided with it.
The world blurred.
I woke in Doc Hendrick’s village office.
Mama, Daddy, Uncle Harry—all hovering. Faces tight with worry.
I smiled, thinking everything was fine. But Daddy’s eyes told the truth.
They always did.
Sunken. Shadowed.
The fire dimmed to ember.
When Daddy saw me stir, relief flickered—
But didn’t last. Beneath it, something deeper lingered.
Hurt.
Disappointment.
A nameless weight.
“How’d I get here?” I sat up quick.
Doc eased me back. “You got a fair-sized whack on the skull from that coat rack. Knocked you out. Your folks drove you here. I think you’ve got a concussion. I’ll send you home but mind your mom and dad. No jumping. No fights. No arguments. Follow orders. Got it?”
I nodded. Pain slashed through my head and neck.
Daddy lifted me.
Arms steady.
But his breath hitched—quick, shallow.
Fear clung to him. Heavy. Unspoken.
As he settled me into the back seat, something strange washed over me—
An ache. A warmth.
I sensed Daddy’s love.
Not in words.
In the way he looked at me.
Held me.
Let me cry.
He loved me.
Tears slipped down—silent, hot.
The strength of his love settled deep.
Right into my soul.
I’d never touch a piano again.
Not after this.
Ever.
On the drive home, Mama kept her eyes turned away.
Neck stiff.
Jaw locked.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t glance my way.
I’d brought trouble to our house.
***** Copyright 2025 Mary Baidenmann