For months, every evening after work, our living room turned into her personal stage.
I’d push the wobbly coffee table against the wall while my mom sat on the couch, cane leaning beside her, clapping on the offbeat.
Lily would stand in the center, sock feet sliding, face serious enough to scare me.
“Dad, watch my arms,” she’d command.
I’d been awake since four, my legs humming from hauling bags, but I’d lock my eyes on her.
“I’m watching,” I’d say, even when the room blurred around the edges.
My mom would nudge my ankle with her cane if my head dipped.
“You can sleep when she’s done,” she’d mutter.
The recital date was pinned up everywhere — circled on the calendar, stuck to the fridge, jammed into my phone with three alarms.
6:30 p.m. Friday.
