Panic bubbles up in my chest. “No. I can’t. I haven’t done either in over a decade.”
“So be terrible,” he shrugs. “It’s just me. No one has to know how rusty you are.”
“I’m not just rusty, Jonah. I... I...”
“You said he convinced you your family was the enemy, and you know now they were not. Then you said heconvincedyou that you had no talent. That means deep down, you know that was a lie. You know he manipulated you. The Grand Ole Opry doesn’t allow amateurs, Renée.”
The wind is knocked right out of me when his words register. He’s right. I know he is and yet the idea of trying again after so long—after being degraded the way I was—it’s impossible.
“Music is in your blood.” He draws out each word, his eyes locked on mine.
“Well if that were true, then Amber would have some musical ability, but she can’t keep a beat.”
I expect an eyeroll as a response, or maybe a quirk in his mouth, but there’s nothing funny in the way he’s watching me. There’s an uncharacteristically serious man standing in front of me, and the gravity of what he’s asking for settles heavy in my chest. Not because he wants something from me—but because he sees something for me.
“I’m not asking you to play for me,” he says quietly, as if he can hear the old voices clawing their way back in. “Or for anyone else. I just hate the idea that you stopped because someone convinced you of a lie.” His jaw tightens, then softens. “If you never touch it again, if you never sing again, that’s your choice. I just want you to knowit is your choice.”
My choice.
It’s my choice.
Why have I never framed it like that for myself? Why have I let this wound that Greg created fester?
All at once, a dam opens and a flood of power surges through me. Instead of drowning in shame—exactly where Greg always wanted me—I’m swept into a current of encouragement and possibility.
Before1 I lose my courage, the mandolin is in my hands, the strap flung over my shoulder. The weight and feel is both familiar and a sharp reminder that I haven’t held one in more than ten years. Jonah hands me a pick, grabs his guitar, and sits in the arm chair across from me.
The first strum of eight perfectly tuned open strings hasme standing. It’s my turn to pace the room now, reacquainting myself with the instrument that was once like another limb. Jonah gives me the space to find the first familiar tune, and when I realize what song it is, I close my eyes in anguish.
I think of my daughters as faint muscle memory guides my unpracticed, uncalloused fingers, and the notes to “Top of the World” by The Chicks flash behind my eyes.
My girls needed me.
I should have had them out of his chokehold, his aggression, his aloofness sooner. The cycle needed to be broken. But Lo’s silence is a daily reminder that it wasn’t broken soon enough.
All I can do now is be better for them and be the mother they need and depend on. I can show them a life of love and growth and hope—the kind of life that was impossible before.
But am I truly allowing them the space to spread their wings when I’ve been so closed off to music and song? I saw the way Delta bloomed when she sang “Blackbird” with Jonah in his studio the night of the storm. I saw the way Lo couldn’t take her eyes off them. I saw the same wonder and yearning reflected in her eyes.
Sometimes I hear Delta sing softly to her sister in their bedroom late at night. They hide it from me.
They hide.
I can’t let them hide anymore.
Icannot hide anymore.
The mellow strum of an acoustic guitar begins to fill in the gaps of my tune—though it’s much more than a tune now. I’m surprised I remember most of it, but even more surprised at how natural it is. It’s like the song has been living at my fingertips this whole time.
And how does he know this song? Or did he just listen to me fumble my way through it a few times and figure outwhere I needed support?
“Do you know this song?” I ask over the music.
He shakes his head, but he doesn’t look away from me and doesn't stop playing.
“It’s by The Chicks,” I say.
A few more bars pass between us and again he doesn’t look away. He’s reading me, studying my hands, following my lead.
