My whole world.
Winnie had smiled so wide I could see it from thirty feet away, even through the haze of gym lights and the shimmer of movement all around her. Her voice joined the others, sweet and slightly off-key, and my heart squeezed so hard I had to press my thumb into the meat of my palm to keep from crying.
She looked radiant.
She looked proud.
And every few seconds she looked into the crowd.
Searching.
Waiting.
Hoping.
My eyes had stayed on her. I didn’t let them wander. Not to the doors. Not to the back wall. Not to the seat beside me that sat empty.
Instead, I had given Winnie everything I had. I smiled like I could make up the difference. Like my love could stretch wide enough to cover the empty space beside me. Like I wasn’t fraying at the edges.
The kids began the second song, something about falling leaves and sharing and neighborly cheer. They swayed side to side in unison, arms rising and falling like clumsy leaves. A few got distracted and waved at parents. One picked her nose. A boy in the back row lifted his shirt and proudly scratched his belly. The audience laughed politely.
Winnie didn’t wave. She didn’t lose focus, but her eyes still moved.
She had been searching. Still hoping.
When her solo came, she had stepped forward with practiced poise, her shoulders pulled back, her hands at her sides. She was small and steady and so heartbreakingly brave.
Her voice had wobbled at the start, just slightly, then found its footing and rose into the space like it belonged there.
I knew every word. Every note. We’d practiced in the living room for days, her voice bouncing off the walls, off-key and perfect. She’d sung it into her hairbrush, into the shampoo bottle, into the quiet corners of bedtime when she thought I wasn’t listening.
Tonight she sang it to me. Just me.
Because that was all there was. It was no surprise her dad didn’t show up, but Austin had promised. Shame rippled through me as I realized I’d let it happenagain. Only this time, it wasn’t just me who was affected.
Halfway through the verse, her gaze had flicked again toward the crowd—one final, hopeful sweep—and when it landed back on me, something in it faltered. The corner of her smile dimmed, not quite a frown, just ... the faintest dip. Like a curtain lowering an inch too early. Like she was folding up something she hadn’t even gotten to fully share.
She finished the song with a quiet bow. Another student stepped forward to enjoy his time in the spotlight. When the song ended, the applause came like a wave, loud and proud, echoing off the high ceilings. Parents clapped and cheered and rose to their feet. Cameras flashed. Kit let out a whoop.
I clapped, too, but I couldn’t feel my hands.
The space beside me was still empty. Cold air clung to it like a ghost. My coat lay draped over the seat, untouched.
I glanced around and noted polite smiles and interested stares. There were whispers behind their curious glances, as if to say, “We all see it. You’re still doing this alone.”
As the grade levels transitioned, movement at the door caught my attention. Austin’s frantic gaze snagged on me, but I swallowed back tears.
He missed the whole thing.
I stared ahead as the rest of the grade levels completed their performances. I willed myself to keep it together. Finally, the lights came up and the kids started filing offstage, giggling and bumping into each other, cheeks flushed and glittering under the lights.
I caught sight of Winnie at the edge of the curtain, her cardigan slipping from one shoulder, her hair a little lopsided now. She looked toward the seats again, just once.
This time, she didn’t even bother to hide the heavy sigh.
I stood quietly. Smoothed my dress again. Gathered our coats and the little purse she’d insisted on bringing.
When I turned to make my way toward the backstage door, I didn’t glance at the entrance once.
