The request surprises me. I’ve kept my musical past separate from being Lily’s mother, afraid that opening that door would invite questions I couldn’t answer or emotions I couldn’t handle.
But tonight, with my daughter holding a guitar and asking for my history, the fear feels smaller than the love.
I sit on the couch behind her, close enough to see her fingers working through chord progressions.
“What do you want to hear?”
“Anything. Something that was yours.”
I think for a moment, searching through years of buried songs until I find one safe enough to share. A lullaby I wrote during pregnancy, when the future felt uncertain but full ofpossibility. I go to my room and grab my acoustic guitar, and then retake my spot.
“Watch my fingers,” I tell her. The song is slow and the chords are easy. There isn’t a doubt in my mind she’ll be able to play this after a few tries.
My voice starts soft, barely above a whisper. The words come back slowly at first, then with growing confidence. A simple melody about protection and promise, about love that lasts through change and challenge.
When the song ends, she doesn’t ask questions or demand explanations. She just says, “That was beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“Will you teach me to play it?”
Nodding. “Yeah, I will. I wrote it for you, when you were a baby. You can have it now.”
Lily wipes a tear away and picks up her guitar. I expect her to try the lullaby but she doesn’t. She returns to practicing the song in the book, humming my melody under her breath while she works through chords.
Later, after I tuck her into bed with the guitar case propped against her nightstand, Lily wraps her arms around my neck and whispers against my ear.
“Can we have more days like this?”
“As many as you want.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I kiss her forehead and turn off the lamp, leaving her room feeling lighter than I have in months. In the hallway, I catch my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize myself. Relaxed. Present. Like a mother instead of a manager.
Back in my room, I notice my phone on the dresser where I left it this morning. The screen shows missed calls and unreadmessages, but for the first time in years, I don’t feel compelled to check them.
I pick up the phone and scroll through the notifications quickly, confirming nothing needs an immediate response. Then I set it aside and get ready for bed, humming Lily’s lullaby.
Lying in bed listening to the quiet sounds of my house, I feel something I haven’t experienced in too long.
Peace.
darian
. . .
The knock comesat nine in the morning. I’m three cups of coffee deep and finally getting somewhere with this melody that’s been dodging me for days. I set my guitar down and head to the door. Through the peephole: a suit. Leather briefcase, slicked hair, the works.
“Darian Mercer?” He extends his hand before I’m fully through the door. “Mitchell Brennan, A&R for Apex Records.”
Apex. Not Bishop’s label. One of the majors.
“Come in.” I shake his hand, already wary. When majors show up at your door unannounced, they want something specific.
Mitchell follows me inside. “Nice setup,” he says, settling onto my couch without invitation. “Very authentic. Though I imagine you miss LA. The heat, the sun, endless women knocking on your door.”
