Edward didn’t ask me about the photo, nor did he thank me for it. But he played almost every night, and most nights, I sat with him, listening, watching. Trying not to think of his mother and how it must have been, her sitting there with Edward leaning into her side.
Sometimes, my mind would drift though, and then I would hear his fingers falter as my imagining of his mother appeared in my mind.
Listening to him trip over the notes, I squeezed his arm.
“I’m here,” I whispered.
He kept playing.