“The Painted Note?”
“Yeah. The one with all the cool designs.”
“Absolutely.”
An hour later, we’re settled into pedicure chairs at the boutique salon downtown, Lily’s feet soaking in warm, bubbly water while she flips through a design book. The Painted Note specializes in music-themed nail art, everything from tiny instruments to musical notation painted with precision across nails.
“I want these,” Lily announces, pointing to a set of silver nails decorated with miniature treble clefs. “Can I really get them?”
“Of course.”
She grins with the kind of happiness I haven’t seen from her in weeks. The nail technician, a woman with purple streaks in her hair and rings on every finger, settles at Lily’s feet and gets to work.
I chose a matte navy base with a single starburst on my ring finger, something subtle but different from my usual clear polish. The manicurist works with quiet efficiency while Lily chatters about camp and friends and whether she thinks the treble clefs will show up well in photos.
“Mom, look.” Lily holds up her hands, silver polish shining under the lights. The tiny treble clefs look like real silver.
“They’re beautiful.”
“Now you.”
I extend my hands, looking at the navy polish with its single point of light. “What do you think?”
“I think they look like you. Pretty but not trying too hard.”
Her comment stings. When did my daughter learn to analyze how much effort it takes me to function?
After the salon, we walk to the smoothie place two blocks away, Lily admiring her nails every few steps. She orders a strawberry banana concoction while I get mango passion fruit. We sit at a small table by the window, watching Nashville go about its Saturday afternoon business.
“This is nice,” Lily says, stirring her smoothie with a biodegradable straw.
“Which part?”
“All of it. But mostly that you’re not checking your phone.”
Another punch to the gut. I reach across the table and squeeze her hand.
“I’m sorry I do that so much.”
“It’s okay. You have important work.”
“Nothing’s more important than you.”
She meets my eyes, checking if I’m lying. “Sometimes it feels like everything is more important than me.”
Her honesty stops me cold. Not angry, just factual. My ten-year-old stating facts about where she ranks in my life.
“That’s going to change,” I tell her. “Starting today.”
“Okay.”
We finish our smoothies in comfortable silence, and then Lily surprises me.
“Can we go look at guitars?”
“Guitars?”
“Now that I’m learning, I think I’d like to have my own,” Lily says with a shrug. “Benny always has one for me, but I’d like to practice at home.”
