“Uncle Liam?” Lila says, pulling me back to the present.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think they practice a lot?”
“Oh, I’m sure they do,” I tell her. “You don’t get that good without a lot of work.”
She nods seriously, like I’ve just shared some profound wisdom. “I think I could be that good someday.”
I look at her. Six years old, eyes bright with possibility, untouched by the reality of broken dreams and failed comebacks. “I think you could be even better,” I say, and for the first time in months, I mean something I’ve said. I love spending time with her. She reminds me that children don’t dream in probabilities, they dream in absolutes. They behave without calculation, which is probably why their belief can resuscitate the dead parts of us adults.
As we make our way backstage after the performance, I’m struck by how different this world feels from mine. The energy here is electric but refined, purposeful but artistic. It’s chaos, but controlled chaos, the kind that creates beauty instead of destroying it.
Lila is ping-ponging off the walls with excitement, as I tread carefully through the narrow corridors, my broad shoulders feeling out of place among the delicate costumes and movements of the dancers who flow around us like water.
And then we find her: the soloist who commanded my attention all night. Up close, she is even more striking than she was on stage. She’s not particularly tall, but she carries herself with a presence that makes height irrelevant. Her blonde hair is swept into a perfect bun, and her blue eyes have this intensity that makes you feel like she can see more than what’s directly in front of her.
“Uncle Liam, it’s her!” Lila whispers, though her version of whispering could probably be heard in Weehawken. “Can we say hi?”
The soloist turns at the sound of Lila’s voice, and when she looks at Lila, her expression softens in a way that transforms her entire face. It transforms mine too. “Hi,” she says. Her voice has this quality that’s warm and welcoming. “Did you enjoy the show?”
Her name is Petra Montgomery, and what follows is the kind of interaction that makes me remember why kids are basically tiny drunk adults. Unfiltered and with not a trace of self-consciousness, Lila launches into a rapid-fire interrogation about spins and costumes and whether Petra’s feet hurt, her hands gesturing wildly as she speaks. Petra crouches down to her level, giving her the kind of genuine, undivided attention most adults forget how to give. But every so often, her eyes flick up to me, and I can’t tell if she’s sizing me up or just wondering how someone like me crash-landed into her world.
“You were incredible,” I say when Lila finally pauses for breath. “The strength and control it takes to make that look effortless… I know it’s anythingbuteffortless.”
Petra tilts her head slightly, studying my face like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Thank you,” she says. “Most people don’t notice that part.”
“I guess I know what it takes to push your body to its limit,” I reply, though even as I say it, I’m acutely aware of the irony. Iusedto know what that felt like.
Her smile shifts. “Then you know it’s not always easy to make itlookeasy.”
“Never is,” I agree, and for a moment, we’re just two people who understand something about the pain and difficulty of making the impossible seem routine.
The conversation continues, Lila serving as our tiny, enthusiastic interpreter, asking the questions that adults would be too polite or too intimidated to voice. And then Petra does something that changes everything.
“I teach a beginner ballet class every Monday evening,” she says, looking directly at Lila. “It’s for children around your age. Would you like to come?”
Lila’s reaction is immediate and explosive. She gasps so hard I’m worried she might hyperventilate, her hands flying to her mouth like she can’t contain her excitement.
“Really? I can go?” she shouts with glee.
“Of course,” Petra says, smiling. “I’d love to have you in class.”
Lila immediately turns to me with a pleading expression that would melt steel. “Uncle Liam, can we go? Please? I want to learn to be like Ms. Montgomery!”
I’m caught off guard by the intensity of her excitement, by the way this chance encounter has suddenly become the most important thing in her six-year-old world. But I’m also caught off guard by the way Petra is looking at me, like she’s genuinely interested in my answer.
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course we can go.”
Lila squeals and throws her arms around my waist. “Thank you, Uncle Liam! You’re the best!”
Glad someone thinks so.
“Monday at six,” Petra says, her eyes meeting mine. “I’ll save her a spot at the barre.”
“Looking forward to it,” I say. “Thanks for making her night.”
As we walk out of the backstage area, Lila skipping ahead of me, I catch myself glancing back over my shoulder. Petra is still standing there, watching us leave, her arms crossed casually, a thoughtful smile playing at her lips.
