Page 48 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

In time, it was my dad who bought me used books on how to read music and the basics of string instruments. Then, after some diligent searching, my mom tracked down one of the few violin teachers near our tiny rural town. It was clear that I wasn’t going to give up the violin anytime soon, and instead of trying to convince me otherwise again, they gave up and let me follow my heart.

I want to make sure I do the same thing for Wren.

While Wren is eagerly banging out what can only be described as rhythmic chaos in the back of the shop, much to the utter delight of the punk-rock employee, my attention drifts. This place hasn’t changed a bit in the years since I’ve last been here. I recognize the rows of gleaming instruments, the shelves packed with sheet music, and the faint smell of polished wood and resin.

As if drawn by a magnet, my gaze lands on a row of violins hanging on the far wall. They’re arranged by size and finish, ranging from beginner models to professional-grade instruments. I wonder how many people coming through Mermaid Shores actually frequent this shop, and I figure it must be more than enough to keep the store in business. After all, notable musicians are undoubtedly among the high-profile individuals who flock to this hidden gem of a town every tourist season.

Still, I’m sure there’s only one professional violinist in town right now.

Or rather, two. One former, one current.

My chest tightens. It’s been so long since I’ve played the violin. I’ve purposefully avoided it, knowing that reaching for it would open up a can of worms that I’m not ready to deal with it.

And yet, before I can fully process what I’m doing, I’ve crossed the room. My hand hovers over one of the violins, the dark varnish gleaming under the light.

“Do you play?” the pink-haired staff member asks.

I jump slightly, not having realized that she had wandered away from my tornado of a daughter. Wren is still contentedly banging away with no rhyme or reason, a bright smile on her face.

“I used to,” I admit. “Not for a long time, though.”

“Want to give it a go? We’ve got bows over here.” She gestures toward a stand nearby.

My first instinct is to decline, to brush off the idea with a polite excuse. But something about the way my fingers are itching to hold the instrument again, even if it’s just for a few seconds, makes me nod in reply.

She smiles, handing me a bow and pointing me toward a stool nearby.

I sit, resting the violin against my shoulder. It feels foreign and familiar all at once, like I’m stepping back in time to a version of myself that I’ve forgotten how to be. The weight of it, the gentle curve of the neck, and the slight roughness of the strings under my callused fingertips—it reminds me so much of Alina that a soft exhale wheezes out of me as a deluge of memories pours over my mind. I’m grateful that the staff member has already wandered away again.

I tighten the bow, swipe it across the rosin, and set it against the strings.

The first note is shaky. The pitch wavers, and my technique is a little clumsy. It’s exactly what I expected to happen, and yet Ican’t help feeling overwhelmed by shame at the fact that I’ve let myself forget such a crucial part of who I once was.

Yet, as I continue playing, muscle memory kicks in. I fall into the opening notes of that old, cursed audition piece—the same one I played years ago for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. I still know it by heart, at least.

The chords float throughout the shop, crooning and curving and soaring, tangled up in the dust motes and buzzing fluorescents and steady hum of the pedestrians outside. This melody is intense and combative, bold and aggressive. Emblematic of the kind of musician I was back then. The kind of artist that Alina pushed me to become.

Vaguely, I’m aware that Wren has stopped drumming.

And when I let the last note of the piece shimmer on the air for a moment before cutting it short with the palm of my hand, I watch her scurry over with awe on her face.

“Daddy,” she whispers. “You’re really good.”

I smile, but it’s tinged with pain.

Wren has never heard me play the violin before. By the time she came into this world, I had already closed that chapter of my life.

“Thanks, kiddo.” I place the violin in my lap and reach out to ruffle her hair.

From nearby, the staff member claps lightly.

“That was really beautiful, sir. You’ve got a great touch.”

I nod in thanks at her, my smile tightening.

With a quiet, resigned sigh, I return the violin to the display shelf and hand the bow back to her. Brushing off the ghostly touch of my long-dead dreams, I pat my daughter’s shoulder.

“So, what do you think? Are the drums loud enough for you?”

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