By day our top floor apartment echoed to the sounds of learning: flats where manuscripts said sharps; clashing C minors in place of sweeping D majors. On the faded green settee proud parents sat nodding nervously in time.
By night the door was firmly locked, blinds drawn and the heavy curtains closed. It would then be her turn. There were never any missed notes; never anybody to listen except me.
Mother had played Carnegie Hall at 14, for a President at 15. By 17 I was born, and nobody seemed interested in her any more.
Mother isn’t bitter; she just loves to play.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.