Trisha had dropped my suitcase.
The contents spilled across the floor in a messy avalanche of clothes, shoes, and toiletries. Towels slid across the hardwood while several picture frames clattered loudly as they hit the ground.
One frame landed hard enough to crack.
My breath caught.
I rushed forward and grabbed it before anyone else could touch it. The glass had shattered, but the photograph inside remained intact. I carefully slid it free from the broken frame, holding it between trembling fingers.
There we were.
Me, barely seven years old, sitting proudly at a piano bench with my hands hovering nervously above the keys.
And beside me stood my father.
I traced the outline of his face with my thumb. Memories rushed back in a flood so vivid it made my chest ache. The stage lights h
