You do not make their burden the stage on which you prove your goodness.
You walk beside them.
You listen.
And when they tell you where to place your hands, you help carry what they are willing to share.
A week after the concert, I passed Julian’s room and heard two instruments.
His guitar.
And, unmistakably, a bass.
I stopped in the hallway.
“Maya Ortiz!”
The music stopped.
A guilty silence followed.
Then Maya shouted from inside the room.
“My dad approved it!”
Julian added, “Eventually!”
I opened the door.
Maya sat beside his desk holding a battered blue bass guitar.
Her father stood behind them with the exhausted expression of a man who had lost a negotiation through attrition.
“I lasted six days,” he told me.
“You’re weak.”
“I know.”
Maya plucked a terrible note.
Julian winced.
“Please stop attacking the instrument.”
“You’ve been playing longer.”
